


Anything but love

by Jinxgirl



Series: Anything but love series [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-07 05:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 117,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15212708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxgirl/pseuds/Jinxgirl
Summary: After an intense argument in the apartment, Puck and Santana are told by their roommates to head out until they could cool off- and abruptly kidnapped by a trio that lays down an ultimatum they have no choice but to follow. Can Puck and Santana survive their experience together and fight their way out of their entrapment? Post "The Quarterback. Warnings: Sexual, physical violence





	1. Chapter 1

It had been two weeks of hell.

From the second Puck heard the news of Finn's death, each day, each hour, each minute that passed seemed to him to be completely pointless, a mocking of what had once been. Because he knew that every second that passed was another second that he would not be able to see Finn, another second bringing them all further and further from Finn still being alive. Every second was another exercise in hopelessness, a mocking of how Puck's life had once been, and what it now was.

The anger he had allowed to fill his chest and his seep deep into his heart, coming out through the tension of his body and the aggression of his words or expressions, every time something or someone pressed down on it, had for a time served as a distraction, a means to fill up time and satisfy himself that he were feeling something, that it was a better and easier feeling than any other. Anger was something Puck was used to, something he had accepted and even considered part of him for all of his life, something that was not embarrassing or painful but rather empowering, forcing others to fear him or at the very least to leave him be. At least, that was what he used to think; now, it seemed harder and harder to hold onto the anger, to shove back any other feelings and let it run unchecked within him.

Feelings like guilt, for not having done more to somehow stop Finn's death from occurring, to save him, though even now he could not begin to think of how this might have occurred. Feelings like nostalgia as he realized, day by day, that all the stupid things he had taken for granted with Finn were done and over with, forever. There would be no locker room conversations about the girls they were dating- or in Puck's case, usually just screwing- no football games or performances in Glee, no dinners at Breadstix or parties in Puck's basement. There would be no fist bumps or spring break trips, no rides in each other's cars, no Super Bowl Sundays or group dates out. There would be nothing, not so much as a glance or a smile, and everything that Puck had looked ahead to with Finn, thinking of it not as anything special or particularly important, but just inevitable and expected, would never happen. It was all over, and he could not seem to wrap his mind around it.

He had made a lot of choices, back in Lima, during the week of Finn's memorial at the school. Listening to all the songs, seeing everyone's tears and hearing their memories, seeing how Finn had affected them all- and some deeply felt interactions with Coach Beiste too- had gotten Puck thinking, and by the time the week was up he had made a decision. By joining the Air Force, he would be choosing a direction to his life, finally stepping into adulthood and becoming the sort of man he had always privately feared he was incapable of being. Not only that, he would be honoring Finn, taking up the position that Finn had not been able to, in honor of his own father, and Puck could think of no better way to live his life.

He had been sort of proud of his decision, even without the others in Glee telling him the same thing. It felt like one of the few things he'd ever done in his life that was the right thing, and he'd done it on his own, without anyone giving him advice or telling him what to do first. And after the goodbye with his mother and Sarah, he had driven back to New York City with Rachel and Kurt and Santana, seemingly the most logical thing to do, since the stationing center in New Jersey was only a two hour drive from their apartment. And this too had seemed ideal; some extra time with some of his Glees before heading off to isolation for who knows how long.

What he had forgotten about was the Santana factor. Because for every single hour that Puck had been stuck in the backseat of Kurt's car with her, while he and Rachel, in what he suspected in hindsight had been a deliberately calculated move, took the front and passenger seat, she had managed to find and relentlessly jab down on every single button of his she could possibly press.

They had never had a totally smooth relationship, even when they were dating; maybe especially when they were dating. Puck and Santana had always been up and down, back and forth, whether this was referring to their sexual status with each other or even whether they could be in a room together for five minutes without bickering and insulting each other. If he had ever tried to analyze it, which he hadn't, not being the type to even want to try, Puck would have come to the conclusion that the two of them were simply too much alike to be able to avoid butting heads. Not with the guy/girl differences, of course, although it seemed to him that their tastes in women tended to overlap sometimes, but just with their general way of going about life. Neither were good at backing down from arguments or admitting wrongs, both tended to be arrogant, aggressive, and defensive, and had a temper that could flare up with little provocation. And though Puck would never admit it, and would have doubted Santana would either, both harbored beneath the surface a secret insecurity of themselves that impacted many of their choices and reactions. They could see little pieces of themselves in the other person, whether or not consciously, and any prolonged exposure would almost inevitably become an explosion.

Santana was one of his Glee girls, and he would always care about her, always be there if she really did want or need him, not that this was ever likely to occur. But starting back at Lima and continuing almost relentlessly all the drive up to New York City, she was driving him absolutely fucking insane.

And it seemed like it was deliberate on her part. Practically every five minutes, she had some snarky comment directed towards him, whether this be about his hair or his clothes to his choice in music to his choice in girls to his choice to go to the Air Force. Everything she could think of, everything he could possibly say or do seemed to be fair game to Santana's criticism, and between that and Rachel and Kurt steadily turning show tunes up to higher and higher volumes to drown them out, by the time they actually pulled into the parking area of the NYC apartment, Puck's anger, which he had thought he had left back behind in Lima, had renewed itself to a point that he felt as though somewhere were crawling beneath his skin, fighting to explode out of him most likely into a display of physical violence.

He would never hit Santana, or any other girl; he knew that, though he sometimes feared that this wasn't the case, that he would become every bit the asshole his father had been and worse. That he would make girls fear him and hate him as well as disrespect him, that he would become less and less of a man the more he was around them. He wouldn't hit her, but sometimes, when she got this bad, sometimes when the anger seemed to have turned his blood into liquid fire flowing through his veins, it was touch and go, and he couldn't entirely remember why not.

By the time they stalked into the apartment, Kurt and Rachel almost immediately fleeing towards their own curtained sections in a likely pointless attempt to have quiet and privacy away from the others, Puck was beginning to realize that the circumstances hadn't changed very much. He was still trapped in a small space with Santana, where he didn't have so much as a curtain to escape behind. Even if he were to lock himself in the bathroom for the rest of the night, unless he ran the water all night long, he could still hear whatever Santana might choose to shout at him, and he undoubtedly Kurt and Rachel would have squawk about their water bill if he tried it. The apartment simply gave Santana more space to stalk around following him while she harped on him, and even as Puck headed straight for their kitchen, intending to find a beer or five, there she was, only a couple of feet away from him. And she just. Wouldn' . It. a. rest.

"Right, heading straight for the booze, then, that's a shocker," she leveled towards him, arms crossed in front of her ample chest, eyebrows slanted towards her nose, forehead furrowed with her irritation. She stepped closer, seeming to want to force Puck to move away to keep distance between them, but he stood his ground. He was not backing away from Santana Lopez, of all people, because what kind of message would that send, what kind of power trip would that give her?

"Going gets tough and Puck gets wasted, this is definitely new and unusual coping skills on your part."

"Back the hell off, Lopez," Puck said tersely, wanting to shoot out a hand against her chest to shove her back himself, but also not wanting to touch her. If he touched her now, when he was so pissed off at her, he couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't keep touching her, in progressively more aggressive ways, so he kept his body deliberately turned away from her as much as was possible as he took three beers out of the refrigerator and lined them on the counter space closest. As he started to shut the door, however, Santana was still talking, and he swore she had moved even closer, practically breathing down his neck now, when he had turned his eyes away from her even just for a few seconds.

"Yes, you're very predictable, Fuckerman. You take up valuable apartment space, perfectly good breathing air, and of course, my jacket, why the hell wouldn't you take my beer too while we're at it?"

"I didn't take the jacket," Puck ground out, gripping the refrigerator door so tightly his knuckles whitened against it. He didn't shut it yet, just attempting to focus on maintaining a level of control of himself, but Santana was persistent, refusing to let it go. Had he been able to really look at her then without his anger controlling everything he was able to see, to hear her without wanting to slap her across the face automatically, he would have seen the genuine desperation and grief glittering in her eyes, heard the pleading in her voice beneath the surface anger, but he couldn't, and he missed both when she spoke again.

"Come on, just tell me what the hell you did with it! I know you can't have it now, you can't take that shit to the air force, they won't let you wear that kind of thing so you MUST have left it back in Lima somewhere, just tell me where and I'll make someone mail it to me. Come on, it's not like you can keep it yourself, you're just being an asshole if you won't tell me where it is, you just want to make sure I can't have it when you can't have it either, and that's not-"

Stiffening all over, Puck slammed the refrigerator door, almost catching his hand in it in the process, and turned fast to face her, pointing one slightly shaking finger towards her as his voice rose again. He could feel the heat of his growing anger traveling through him again, leaving his muscles so tight and stiff that it seemed to him that the only thing that would loosen them up, the only thing that would effectively let him bleed out the rage that her words and actions was causing to build up within his entire frame, would be to hit out at something or someone, to receive or give out physical pain. Sometimes it seemed to him that feeling or witnessing physical pain was the only way to avoid or entirely dissipate emotional pain, and he wanted to, so badly, in that moment that he could feel a shakiness settle over his limbs, causing him to tremble visibly even as he snapped back at her.

"I don't know if you got a hairspray build-up in your ears over the years or balls of earwax or some dude's spunk or what, but you obviously ain't hearing, Ho-Pez, so let's try again. I didn't. Fucking. Take. . Did you get it this time, did you hear me loud and clear? I didn't fucking take it! But even if I did, which I already said I fucking DIDN'T, you really think it wouldn't belong to me and every other person in the whole Glee club before it would ever belong to you?"

"It does belong to me, Kurt gave it to me, asshole!" Santana fired back, her voice rising into a progressively louder and shriller tone, and she took another step closer, jabbing a finger directly into his chest. "It's MINE, it's not yours and it never was, it's MINE-"

"You really think Finn would want YOU to have it? His letterman jacket, YOU?" Puck retorted, and when she poked his chest, his hand snatched out to catch hold of it, squeezing her wrist until he heard her gasp. He let go then not because he wanted to, but because he knew he had to, because if he kept hold of it much longer, he would not be able to guarantee that he wouldn't hurt her. Her wrist was so damn tiny it wasn't like it would have been hard to.

"Get fucking serious, Santana. You weren't friends. The only reason he was ever nice to you was because he pitied you. And YOU, you really think you deserve his jacket after the way you were such an evil bitch to him? You didn't give a shit about him, you didn't do shit for him, why the hell should you get his jacket? What the hell would you do with it anyway, hang it up in your closet as some kind of twisted game, trying to prove you actually cared? Trying to keep it away from the people that really did? Or are you gonna bury it under a pile of stained panties and forget it ever existed?"

He knew with a vicious satisfaction that his words had hit the intended mark when Santana's spine stiffened, her lips pressing together into a thin line, and a liquid sheen coming into her eyes. He thought for a second that she would slap him across the face- just like she had once done to Finn- or maybe burst into tears, yelling in Spanish at him and launching herself towards him in an effort to actually inflict some kind of lasting damage, even though it was probably her manicured nails and not her scrawny little fists that he would actually have to worry about. But she blinked several times, and the threatening tears were banished, her expression becoming pure outrage as she reached out with both hands and shoved him as hard as she could in the chest. It didn't budge him, but that didn't stop her from pushing him several more times with increasing effort, trying to.

"Don't you fucking DARE, Puckerman! Don't you DARE!"

She shoved him again, and this time Puck felt nails pierce his chest slightly through his shirt. She jabbed her finger in his face, centimeters from poking him in the eye, as her voice rose up higher still, practically screaming in his face.

"Don't you dare act like you know shit about either of us, don't you dare! What the hell did you ever do for Finn other than fuck every girl he put his eyes on? We WERE friends, I DID give a shit, he was my friend and I did care about him, I did lo- I did love him!" she stuttered over the word, and he saw her blinking back against a new sheen of tears again, her lips flatlining before she shoved his chest yet again. "Don't' you dare tell me about us like you fucking know, what kind of friend were YOU to him? How the hell can you judge without looking in the fucking mirror!"

"Hey, what is going ON in here? Guys, stop it, just calm down already!" came Kurt's voice in protest, and as he emerged from behind his curtain, Rachel was coming into view moments later, her voice taut with anxiety, literally wringing her hands in front of herself as she too half pleaded with them.

"Noah, Santana, please, please just stop…it's late and we're, we're tired and upset and just…please-"

But there was no stopping either of them now. They were on a roll, barely hearing or seeing the other two cutting through the living room area towards them in the kitchen area, and Puck was focused in on Santana and her words alone, seizing on what he could from them to hurt her the most.

He knew he had already pressed pretty hard, telling her that she didn't deserve Finn's jacket, that she hadn't been a good friend to him and she hadn't really cared about him. He knew deep down that this wasn't true; as fractious as their relationship had been, Finn and Santana had genuinely loved each other, and everyone in Glee club knew it. Puck knew that too. But it seemed like the implication that they may not have hurt Santana, or maybe she harbored doubts of her own, and so in his anger he seized on this weakness, going in for the kill. There was satisfaction in seeing someone else's pain, a perverse pleasure in knowing he could make Santana hurt as he was hurting, and distract himself from it in the process. It was better than focusing on his own, to inflict some on Santana, and so he ignored their friends' pleas, seizing Santana's hands again and holding them tightly, restraining her from pushing him as he leaned his face close to hers, not shouting, but maintaining a deliberately aggressive tone.

"Oh, you were friends, huh, really awesome friends, you think so? You loved him? Cool story, Lopez, but tell me, did he know that? You ever tell him that? You ever do anything except call him names and pull him into and then kick him out of your bed? You ever do anything except make fun of his weight and his nipples and his dancing and his friends and his girl, you ever do anything with him outside of Glee club, just the two of you? You ever call him on the phone just to talk, you ever tell him he killed one of the songs he sang or that he was a good FRIEND or that he was good to Rachel or ANYTHING except what a tub of lard loser he was? You ever do that, Santana? Words are cheap…and so are you."

He didn't see the slap coming; one moment Santana was tearing her hands out of his grasp, and then there was a sudden sharp stinging across left cheek and part of his nose. He had barely processed this, had not so much as lifted a hand to his face, when she was shoving at him again, heedless to Rachel's horrified exclamation and Kurt's shrill calling of her name.

"LOOK WHO'S TALKING! Who the hell fucks every girl he can get into bed with him, whether they're sober or not?! Who's been fucking freshman girls, who knocked up the PRESIDENT OF THE CELIBACY CLUB after getting her DRUNK, who by the way was FINN'S GIRLFRIEND, who falls into bed with any girl who has tits and then dumps her down the curb the second you cum? Who barely passed high school and doesn't actually have a job or a future other than cleaning pools and fucking old women NOT for cash, what have you EVER been but cheap, Puckerman?! You're like a knockoff version of Finn, all you do is skulk around behind him picking up or snatching away whatever he sets down! His girls, his activities, his EVERYTHING, even the damn Air Force, you can't do anything on your own, you have to mess up everything he ever did or said and try to make it yours but you still can't cover up what a fucking loser you are!"

"Santana!" Kurt and Rachel call out simultaneously, Kurt's voice a shout, Rachel's a horrified whisper, but neither register to Puck's ears. He could feel his face begin to burn, his eyes to sting slightly, not just from the fading pain of her slap, but from her words himself. Because Santana Lopez always knew exactly how to get under someone's skin, and she had slipped so deeply beneath his that he felt as though she had cut him to the bone.

Because what she was saying to him...it was exactly what he himself had privately feared to be true. Finn's shadow, always less than. Less talented, less liked, less successful, less of a future, less likely to ever be loved or appreciated, to ever become a real man. No one ever said it to his face, other than his own parents- no one would have had the nerve. Except for Santana Lopez. And as he looked down into her eyes, seeing the intensity of his anger, his immediate reaction was to hurt her back, girl or not, as much as she had just hurt him. If not more.

Puck reached down, seizing her by the upper arms and holding hard enough that he knew it would be difficult for her to pull away, knew that he was probably holding her too hard, harder than he had ever held a girl before, maybe even hard enough to bruise. He started to propel her backwards towards the wall, still holding onto her arms as he yelled, inches from her face.

"You take that fucking back, Lopez! Run your mouth, that's all you know how to fucking do, so what the fuck are you doing with your life? Taking off your clothes and letting people you call fucking losers ogle the tits your daddy gave you, dropping out of school because you can't take the heat of being away from the girl who's so over you she's back to fucking dudes? Crashing at other people's apartment because you can't stand on your own two feet? What the fuck are you doing with your life other than holding onto to other people's coattails and letting them drag you through your own pile of shit?"

He pressed his face close to hers, a sick part of him enjoying the way her dark eyes had grown wide, the way tears came into their surface and caught at her eyelashes, not quite falling. He liked the stricken look of her features, the glint of fear he could see in her eyes, the way her throat worked as though she could not force words from it, the small fragility of her arms beneath his grip. He could see her chest heaving, and even as a larger part of him was disgusted with himself, even as he knew he should back off, apologize, there was still a part of him that enjoyed feeling this sense of power over her, this sense of forcing her to "get hers." And this part was what wouldn't let him back down.

He shook her then, just once, but hard, and would have shook her again, maybe even considered hitting her, if it hadn't been for the outcry of the two other people in the apartment with them.

"Noah, no! Stop...Noah, stop it, please, Santana, please, just...don't, please don't. Not now...not tonight, not not EVER...just...don't, please…"

Rachel was sobbing, head buried in her hands on the couch across the room from them. Puck could see out the corner of his eyes that her back was shaking with her tears, that she seemed genuinely afraid to look up at him- to see what he might do. For Rachel to be afraid of him, crying because of him, caused Puck to freeze even before Kurt's shrill tone broke through his partial daze, his and then the smaller man's arms were pulling hard at his hands, trying to force them off of Santana.

"Noah Puckerman, don't even think about it, get your hands off her and back away. BACK AWAY!"

And without hardly even realizing that he was obeying, or who he was obeying, Puck did as he was being told, releasing Santana abruptly and letting Kurt Hummel, of all people, pull him back. He could feel Kurt's scrawny hand still firmly attached to one bicep, could still hear Rachel's tears in the background and Kurt's high pitched voice lecturing, seeming to be approaching tears too as he continued.

"Both of you, stop it, do you think Finn would be okay with either one of you doing this, do you think this is okay? You can't do this! Santana, if he said he didn't take the jacket, then just...just let it go. I've got other things of his I can give you, just please, please let it go. Puck, don't you ever even act like you're going to hurt her again, I don't care how big or tough you think you are, I promise you I will find a way to hurt you. And both of you...just STOP screaming at each other, STOP putting each other down, just STOP!"

Kurt was breathing almost as hard as Puck and Santana were at this point, and Puck didn't miss the near desperate fear in the other young man's eyes along with his anger, the devastation in Rachel's face where she remained hunched over, hugging herself, on the couch. He let his eyes drift to Santana, and then, unable to look at her, immediately turned his face away.

But those few seconds of looking at her had been enough to fully inform him of her current state of mind, for him to see, really see, the emotions she could no longer even attempt to hold back or cover up. Santana was trembling, her arms now wound tightly around herself, hugging her elbows to her torso, and the tears that had been standing in her eyes were now overflowing, trickling down her cheeks as she tried to glare hatefully in his direction. Between her quivering lips and her obviously distraught eyes, all she could manage to summon up was an angry grimace, and her voice cracked and trembled badly when she tried to retort back to Puck.

"You-you bastard…Finn would really, F-Finn would be so fucking proud of you, pushing a girl around like…treating her like…"

"Santana, STOP," Kurt broke through before she could really get going, and Puck heard her sob as she cut herself off, could see even as he tried to avert his eyes that her head was bowed, concealing her face.

Shame was beginning to settle in as strongly as his anger and his grief now, shame and self-disgust, and he deliberately stepped further away from her, away from Kurt and Rachel too, unable to form words of apology for any of them. He knew they were right. Finn would hate what he had just done, the things he had said. But even as he clinched his jaw, saying nothing, Kurt was still talking.

"Both of you need to leave, right now. Get out of his apartment, go cool off, and come back when you can stop from doing this. But I refuse to watch or listen to this anymore and I refuse to let you do it in front of Rachel."

It was hardly a surprise, to be asked to leave, but it was unexpected that they would ask Santana to go too. She was a girl, after all, she was their roommate, and at least from what would be the average person's perspective, Puck would guess, the victim. Sure, she had slapped and pushed him first, but she was the girl, smaller and weaker than him, and she was probably the only one who would have physical marks. But glancing over at Kurt, Puck could see form his thinned lips and set jaw that he was serious, that he had every intention of doing whatever it took to make sure that they would leave- both of them.

And Santana seemed to realize this too. Her eyes shifted between the three of them, barely ghosting over Puck's form, before she gave another sob aloud, one hand lifting to swipe at her eyes and doing little to change the fact that they were still steadily seeping tears as fast as she could wipe. She muttered swears beneath her breath, and then turned to grab her purse from the counter, head lowered as she headed straight for the door. And Puck, with a heavy sigh, followed her out.

Arms tightly crossed over his chest, Puck kept his head down, eyes up, trained on Santana's rigid back as he walked rapidly outside her apartment, trying to keep up with her. Having never been to her apartment before, he was unfamiliar with the area, and he could just see Santana deliberately losing him in the New York streets, with no wallet or cell phone, to try to figure out for himself how to get back. Not to mention that it was already dark outside, and he didn't want to leave her stalking through New York City streets alone. Despite what had just happened between them, and the remaining strands of anger he still carried, she was nevertheless still one of the handful of people in his life he cared about, and she was an attractive female who was obviously too upset at this point to be paying much attention to her surroundings. Whether or not she wanted him to follow her or accompany her, there wasn't much choice if he wanted to satisfy his own conscience, and so he quickened his steps, careful to keep his eyes on her.

Santana had been totally out of line in what she said, as only Santana would dare to be, and she had hit him where it hurt, deliberately and knowingly. But all the same, it was difficult to maintain much anger towards her in the light of his own dawning guilt and shame for his own behavior. He had hurt Santana too; he had seen it, stark and raw, in her face, in the tears that even now he suspected she was still having difficulty keeping in check. He had made her cry, and that as much as anything Puck was angry with himself for.

It was a secret weakness of his, crying girls. He hated it with an intensity that might have surprised them, or even excited them, to know something so simple to give them power over him. Seeing girls cry made him feel so helpless, so angry at the cause, anxious to do anything to make it stop, and Santana was no exception. Whatever she had said or done, the dealbreaker as still that he had made her cry, and for that Puck knew that one way or another, he would have to apologize.

She was walking fast, seeming to be trying to lose him, or maybe she simply didn't notice or care that he was trying to keep up with her. Lengthening his strides, Puck called out to her, hearing the roughness of his voice even as he tried to keep it civil in tone.

"Santana, slow down. How the hell can you walk that fast in high heels anyway?"

She ignored him the first time he called, but when he called again, this time having managed to get close enough to her to be directly behind her, she stopped suddenly, so unexpected that Puck actually had to halt in his steps to avoid colliding with her back. As she turned to face him, he could see the tears still streaking down her face, the eyeliner and mascara smeared around her eyes, and he cringed, renewed discomfort settling in his chest. Her narrow shoulders were drawn up, and she seemed to be shaking slightly, maybe from the cool temperature of the evening, maybe from her intense emotions, but either way, it was obvious that she was still upset. Even though her voice was still raised, her words lacked bite, and her lips were quivering when she spoke, eyes blinking rapidly.

"Leave me alone, Puckerman. Just…fuck off…leave me alone."

"Santana, come on, you know I'm not gonna let you walk around the city this time of the night by yourself when you're like, half blinded by tears and mascara clumps," Puck informed her, and he reached out for her shoulder, then thought better of it, taking a step back when she shot him a withering look. "We don't gotta talk or whatever, but I'm not gonna let you wander in and out of dark alleys to get your kidney cut out or something."

"Oh, so you care if the stripper slut that no one gives a shit about gets murdered? Thanks a hell of a lot for those crumbs, Fuckerman, don't I feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside," she snapped back, but the venom of her tone was marred by her need to sniffle and rub at her eyes simultaneously. She started to walk away again, but then, seeming to be unsatisfied leaving it like this, turned on her heels again, pointing her finger at him almost accusingly.

"For your information, I'm not a stripper anymore, okay? I work at a DINER. I sing and I dance and I wait tables and I'm making money and paying rent, I'm not holding onto ANYONE'S coattails. Rachel and Kurt want me there, maybe they didn't at the start but they do now, and you don't know anything about Brittany so just don't."

Chin lifted, she regarded him, seeming to be almost daring him to fight back or contradict her, but Puck had no intention of doing so. Instead, jaw working slightly, he exhaled, then, shoving his hands into his pockets, nodded, accepting this, and tried to offer a somewhat calmer rebuttal of his own.

"Yeah, well…okay then. I didn't sleep with Kitty, okay, so…and all you said about Finn…it's not true, okay? Wasn't ever like that with us. Not on purpose, anyway. I didn't…I never just took stuff he had just to take it, or…it wasn't like that. I'm doing this for him, you got it? I'm doing this to...to honor him."

His voice drops, and tears prick at his eyes that he quickly forces back, hardening his expression and lifting his chin again. "And I didn't take his jacket. Think what you want, but I didn't." Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "And...fine, I shouldn't have grabbed you. Okay? And…shouldn't have said some of that stuff. So…sorry. Okay? Sorry."

A few seconds passed, and when he saw Santana take another visible breath, her chest rising and falling, tears still pricking at her eyes, he had to add one more thing. "Look, stop crying already, alright?"

Although the words sounded harsh, Puck's tone was more awkward than anything; it was the crying that was really getting to him.

He watched as Santana breathed in again, wiping the last remnants of tears, and then nodded slowly, seeming to be accepting, or at least thinking about accepting, his words. After a few seconds she muttered an apology of her own, directed more towards Puck's chest than towards his face.

"Yeah…whatever. I guess…sorry too. For…hitting you and…the things about Finn, and being…" she sighed, then, the words still directed somewhere other than his face, mumbled, "He would like it, I think. You doing the Air Force thing for him. So…I guess it's…sort of cool."

Licking her lips, she finally lifted her eyes to Puck's, then took a step away from him, glancing over his shoulder to see if he were following. "Look…let's just go get some coffee or something, okay…don't think they're gonna let us back in yet. We're the dogs that pissed on the couch or something to them right now, so let's give it an hour or whatever before we go beg to be back in their graces."

Puck takes in what she is saying, more than a little surprised to hear it coming from Santana, of all people. His lips thin, and he nods slowly, his eyes shifting away, lest she see in them more than he wants her to, or more than he even wants to be feeling. Mouth still tightly compressed, he clears his throat, shoves his hands in his pockets, and glances quickly. Seeing that she seems to be coming to the end of her tears, he is able then to look at her longer, and just nods again in response to her apology.

"Yeah...coffee. Lead the way."

"There's the diner like six blocks over, it's open most of the night and into the morning," Santana told him as she began to walk again, though Puck noticed that she was headed for what looked like exactly one of the alleys he had been leery about possible kidney carvings taking place in. "There's a few short cuts if you know the right ones, if you go through this alley and then down the back street and up one-"

"Santana, you really wanna go through alleys like that when it's dark out?" Puck interrupted, quickly stepping closer to her and looking around himself as she lead them into the alley's entrance. It was dark, with no streetlights or neon signs to provide much in the way of illumination, but Santana was walking ahead as if she had no concerns whatsoever.

"Oh, please, I do it all the time," she dismissed him with an eye roll. "If I'm running late for work and I can't get a cab, and I'm not about to run in thigh high boots, how else you think I get there on time? Gotta be resourceful, Puckerman."

"You cut through alleys alone in the dark to save yourself a lecture for being five minutes late?" Puck's eyebrows rose as he tried to catch up with her; he had stopped in the alley's entrance, uneasy with entering, even as Santana walked ahead. Now as he started to walk again, she was entering the backstreet area and already turning into the second alley two buildings down.

"Don't get all protective male on me, it's lame and unnecessary," Santana called over her shoulder, rolling her eyes again. "I know the area now, and it's like five minutes. Like someone's really gonna gut me in five minutes."

"'Tana, if you walk the same route, through the alleys, all the time, always alone, people might figure it out pretty fast," Puck pointed out, even as Santana spun on her heels again in the second alley's opening, expression and tone both carrying obvious exasperation now as she responded.

"Puck, jesus, I'm not an idiot, I have friggin' Mace in my purse and besides it's a five minute walk, what the hell can happen in five-"

But Santana never finished her sentence, because as soon as she turned to face Puck, her back to the alley, a man stepped forward, seizing her by the upper arms and yanking her back into the alley's darker interior. What Puck had seen of him was that he was a larger man, clad in dark clothing, and it appeared that he was wearing a ski mask or some similar dark covering over his face. As he yanked Santana backwards, Puck heard her start to scream, and then abruptly the noise was cut off. As though he had stopped her- as though he had hurt her, or maybe-

"SANTANA!" he hollered, beginning to run forward, as pure adrenaline, induced by a sudden rush of fury and fear for her sake begin to flood through him his veins, settling within his muscles to push them into motion. As Puck reached the alley's opening, he saw the same man, supporting a limp, sagging Santana against him, saw that Santana's face was ashen, her eyes closed, mouth slack. He saw the needle in the man's hand, saw him removing it from where it was stuck into Santana's neck in one swift motion, and then, Puck saw red.

This man was hurting Santana, possibly even killing her. He couldn't let that happen, he refused to. Not on his watch, not if he could do anything at all to stop it. Puck refused to let anymore of his friends die, or even come to serious harm, not now, not ever. Not his girls. Not even Santana Lopez.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER!" he screamed, "GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF HER!"

He threw himself at the man with a growl that sounded almost feral, aiming a blow at his face with one fist even as his other hand clawed to pull Santana away from him. But he hadn't noticed the two men coming up behind him, grabbing at his arms even as he fought and yelled and desperately tried to get Santana from the first, even as he didn't dare take his focus off her for even a moment. It took longer for them to manage to get a good enough grip on him to stick a second needle in his neck, but then it was over, and his last thoughts as he felt a fuzzy darkness settle over his mind were of Santana, a desperate hope that she was okay, and an encompassing disgust and fear of his own failure.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Puck noticed, when he began to seep back towards a more active state of consciousness, was that there was something touching his chest and his leg.

He couldn't even begin to piece together what was going on; he was aware of a vague throbbing in his temples, a terrible dryness in his throat, and his body felt heavy and faintly beyond his control, as though he would have to think very carefully to be able to control his limbs. And there was something on his left ankle, a faint, warm weight, a slightly heavier weight across his chest, neither which he could even begin to guess at identifying with his eyes still closed. It seemed an incredible effort to try to drag them open, to begin to pull himself fully back into consciousness, but Puck tried, fighting against his natural inclination to sleep and dragging himself to surface again.

He had to blink several times to clear his vision enough to really begin to take in what was around him, and still he didn't manage to sit up right away. But he was aware of a softness beneath him, and when he fully opened his eyes, it became clear that he was on a bed. His neck muscles ached, and he groaned involuntarily as he turned his head, taking in the details of his location.

It appeared that he was in some sort of unfinished basement. The floor beneath the bed was concrete, the walls appearing to be made of some sort of rough granite, and therefore impossible to break through with his fists- and likely difficult to be heard through, were he to call out. There was a small table beside the bed, containing nothing, and a small door in the corner- to a closet? Perhaps a bathroom? The staircase leading up to the basement door consisted of concrete stairs as well, with a wooden railing firmly affixed to the wall. There was nothing else in the room of any interest or appearing unusual in any way.

Except that in the bed beside him was Santana Lopez, eyes still closed, head tilted back in such a way that her hair spread around her head, her chin sticking slightly up. It was her ankle that was crossed over Puck's, her right arm flung out over his chest, making up the weight that he had felt, and as he realized this, Puck painfully pulled himself to a sitting position on the bed to look down at her more closely, having to gently remove her limbs from him first to do so. Frowning down at her, one hand coming up to absently rub at his temples, he reached out to touch her cheek. Although her face was still paler in hue than usual, her skin was warm, and he could see her chest rise and fall with her breaths. She was alive, and from what he could see of her at a glance, unhurt, and he was somewhat relieved too to see that she was still fully dressed. Not that this necessarily meant anything for sure, but still…

His eyes shifted towards Santana's neck, seeing the faint wound that the needle had left, and his hand moves to cover the mark on his own neck, flinching slightly as he pressed his fingers in. Whatever they had given Santana, they had clearly given him as well, and it had worn off faster on him. Maybe they had underestimated how much he would need for his gender and size, or maybe they had overestimated how much Santana needed. Could they have given her too much? Could they have sent her into some kind of coma, or overdose? She was very small, especially compared to him- what if they had really hurt her?

A stirring of renewed shock and anxiety beginning to swirl through his gut, Puck took her by the shoulders, beginning to shake her slightly. When Santana didn't stir, he began to flick his fingers against her cheeks, leaning close to her face and addressing her, gently at first, then with increased volume and urgency.

"San! Santana, wake up! Santana!"

He was relieved when she first began to stir, moaning aloud with her eyes still tightly closed. As he put a hand behind her shoulders, helping her to ease to a sitting position, Santana's eyes slitted open partway, and she brought unsteady hands up to rub at them before she seemed to become more fully alert. Eyes widening, her spine stiffening, she began to swivel her head around, taking in her surroundings and seeming to grow progressively more confused and distressed by what she saw. Her mouth dropped, and she sputtered for a few seconds before the questions began to fly.

"W-what? What…Puck, what the fuck is this? Where are we, what happened? What the fuck?!"

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice gruff, not quite as intense as hers, but holding a frustration that hers lacked. "Looks like a basement. Some old house?"

"How the fuck did we get there?!" Santana's head continued to swivel, as though she half believed that if she continued to look around enough, her situation would begin to make sense to her, or maybe would change entirely. "What the hell is this?! I don't remember getting here! Are we drunk? Are we high? Did someone roofie us, what the fuck, we're in a BED in a BASEMENT-"

She looked down at herself hurriedly, as though checking to make sure that she was still fully clothed, and seeing that she was, she nevertheless shoved a hand down her pants, heedless of Puck's eyes on her, ostensibly checking further for any evidence of assault. Apparently not finding any, she sputtered on undeterred, grabbing at Puck's bicep and unconsciously digging her fingernails into his skin.

"What the hell is this, what's going on?!"

"I don't' know, Santana!" Puck answered, his own voice carrying a note of irritation directed towards her as much as towards the situation, towards himself and his own confusion and as well. "You were taking the stupid shortcut, just like I told you not to do, and some dude jumped out with a needle and jabbed it in your throat, and then two others grabbed me and I guess did the same thing, and here we are! You tell ME what's going on, because this ain't my city or my shortcut through dark alleys and I sure as hell don't know!"

"A…a needle? They stuck a-" Santana's hand immediately went to her neck, and her eyes bulged as she felt the small wound still present on her skin. She gasped, and when she looked back at Puck, the fear in her voice could not be covered by the anger she tried to put in its place.

"This better not be some kind of joke, Puckerman, or some fucked up revenge, because this isn't fucking funny. So if you're behind this, if you've got some Air Force friends whose strings you pulled to set this up, you better tell me right now before I go all Lima Heights on you and kick your ass through this concrete floor."

She was unbelievable. Simply unbelievable. How the hell could she somehow twist this situation around so it was all HIS fault? Puck didn't stop to think about what he was saying or whether it was wise to be arguing or raising his voice at all, given their situation, instead of trying to immediately find a way out of the basement, or at the very least working together with rather than antagonizing the only other person stuck there with him. Instead he pointed a finger towards her, his tone taking on a rather aggressive quality as he shot back at her.

"You fucking kidding me, Lopez? Take a second and think about what the hell is the reality here. Who was it that wouldn't shut up about something I didn't even do and got us both kicked out of the apartment? Who waltzed through a dark alley in the middle of the night and stood around yammering about how safe it was two seconds before a bunch of dudes started playing psycho nurse fantasy on us? You telling me you go through that alley alone every night and you don't know who the hell could have done this? Come on, Santana, dudes don't just hang around dark alleys with a needle in hand just HOPING someone dumb and hot is gonna come by. Someone must have been waiting for you! So who is it, Santana, pimps, drug lords, the ex husbands of girls you've been fucking? You're seriously gonna try to make this my fault somehow? Right, Santana, give it up. What the hell did you get yourself into up here?"

Puck watched her eyes go dark, her slight recoiling reaction, as though he had slapped her. Santana started to scoot away from him on the bed, as if she didn't want any part of her to make any contact with him at all. Her arms shot out, and she shoved his chest, hard, eyebrows slanting down towards her nose as her own voice rose to rival his.

"Oh, so it's MY fault?! You're blaming this on ME?! Are you really gonna go down that road, are you fucking serious?! Oh, so the slutty whore must be the reason behind all this, I must be such a skanky, pathetic loser that I'm AROUND assholes like this who shoot up and try to kidnap or kill people or whatever the fuck it is they're doing to us here?! That's what you think about me, that I WORKED for people like this, or they were my FRIENDS, or they follow me around trying to get in my pants because I'm so obviously their type, is THAT what the fuck you're saying?!"

"What I'm saying is how the hell else do you explain this?" Puck countered, throwing both hands out and almost hitting her across the chest. As Santana leaned as far away from him as possible, her scowl deepening, he pointed back at her deliberately, having seen how much it irritated her the first time. "Come on, Santana, I ain't a math genius but I can add two plus two. You work onstage at a night club or a strip joint or wherever the hell you did before, you got assholes watching you shaking your ass and tits all night long drooling into their beer. Maybe you don't KNOW these dudes but you probably saw them before and that's probably how. They probably got some kind of twisted serial killer fantasy going now, they probably wanna lock you up and carry out their biggest wet dream in full color close and personal live action roleplay or whatever. I mean, come on, what other possible explanation is there?"

Santana's glare could not have been more hateful in appearance, and yet she briefly bit her lower lip, blinking quickly, as though trying to conceal a softer emotion. But then she was lifting her chin, jaw set, and her voice showed no change in tone as she continued.

"Fuck you, Noah Puckerman. You can stay here and rot for all I fucking care but I'm not gonna spend one second more than I have to down here with you. You sit there and say all the shit you want but I'm getting the hell out of here, and then I swear I'm NEVER gonna talk to you again."

She started to push herself up from the bed, but her legs wobbled, seeming momentarily too unsteady to hold her up, and she had to reach to catch herself against the bed's edge. Her cheeks reddening with embarrassment, she glared towards him again, though Puck had made no gesture to attempt to help her and was only watching her, one eyebrow raised. Swearing under her breath, Santana steadied herself for a few more moments, then, once sure her legs would support her, she began to stalk first towards the door that Puck had noticed earlier, flinging it open to reveal a small bathroom, with a sink, toilet, and bathtub occupying it. This obviously not being what she had been looking or hoping for, Santana began to nearly stomp over towards the staircase, making her way upwards more slowly than she had managed across the floor. She seemed to be holding onto the staircase as much because she needed the support as for any safety precautions, and Puck, rolling his eyes, but feeling not only a desire to be right there with her, helping to break them out, but also a reluctant protectiveness towards her, should she start to fall on her unsteady legs, got to his feet, noticing a brief dizziness in his head and a weakness in his own limbs before he started after her, beginning to follow behind her on the stairs.

"It's probably locked," he warned Santana as she reached the top of the stairs before him, but the Latina ignored him, not even turning her head to acknowledge him as he drew closer behind her.

As he continued to mount the stairs, he watched her try the doorknob, then, finding it locked, as he had predicted, began to rattle the doorknob, turning it in all directions in an effort to either pull the knob off entirely or to somehow magically unlock it with her motions. Grunting and then releasing a string of Spanish swears aloud, Santana continued to yank at it, with increasing frustration.

"Fuck! Open up already!"

"Lopez, you really think that's gonna help? You hit like a girl, and you pull like one too," Puck rolled his eyes.

Reaching out one hand, he took her by the shoulder and moved her aside, out of the way, brushing past her to squeeze in at the top step, closest to the doorway. He heard Santana's indignant noise in response to this but ignored her, examining the knob himself and trying to twist it off, but his efforts, even as he increased them, were to no avail. Beginning to lose what little patience had remained in him, Puck began to kick and hit the door himself with as much force as he could manage, all the while yelling aloud and swearing for who or whatever might be on the other side. He noticed Santana inching a few steps down from him out the corner of his eyes, as though not wanting to be within range of his fists of feet, and he continued on, not noticing when his toes began to bruise and his knuckles began to scrape and even to bleed on the heavy door's surface. It wasn't until he realized that Santana was shouting his name, that there was a note of genuine fear in her tone as well as anger, before he stopped, chest heaving, arms shaking, and turned to face her, swallowing back the defeated rising in his throat.

"WHAT?"

"You're bleeding," she said more quietly, nodding towards his hands, and Puck noticed her again bite her lip before she continued. "And you're not helping anything. No one's coming…and you're not gonna take it down. They're probably on the other side pissing themselves laughing at you."

She was right and Puck knew it, but it made it no easier for him to acknowledge or admit it. He said nothing to her, jaw clinched, not meeting her eyes, and when Santana exhaled, muttering for him to go back down the stairs and starting down without him, he hesitated before beginning to follow her down.

She directed him to sit on the bed again, and he obeyed, though he considered protesting. He didn't know what she was doing or why, but she seemed to be attempting to take charge in some way, and he wasn't in the mood to fight her- yet. She disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes, then reemerged with some wash clothes and a small first aid kit in her hand. At Puck's bemused look, Santana nodded to his hands, rolling her eyes.

"Not like I really care, but if you get a friggin' staph infection and die on me here, then you're totally gonna smell and I can't live with that. Hold still and don't complain, dumbass."

Puck hesitated, half expecting her to take his hands, should he offer them, and dig her long fingernails into his wounds, laughing all the while. But when she made an impatient gesture towards him, opening the first aid kit and laying out cleansing wipes treated with peroxide and antibacterial ointment, he reluctantly put one hand out for her to take, waiting.

She was gentler than he had expected; rather than harshly jabbing at the wounds, she cleaned thoroughly but carefully, as though she had had some experience in the matter before. He remembered after a minute that she had in fact been a candy striper for a time at high school and may in fact have been instructed in simple first aid during that time. All the while she continually muttered under her breath, little comments about Puck being "stupid" or a "dick," but there was no real anger in her tone anymore, and Puck didn't take offense or challenge her. He knew she was probably right about this too.

"There," she said when she had finished, putting the supplies back in their container and closing it up. She stood to return the kit back to the bathroom before rejoining him, standing near the bed with arms folded rather than sitting beside him again. "So if there's supplies under the sink, for cleaning and first aid and stuff, that leaves two choices. Either we're in someone's house or building and they use this stuff, or else they specifically stocked it for us. Meaning that they planned ahead for this, and meaning they probably intend for us to be here for a long time. I mean would you put ten toilet paper rolls down there if you didn't?"

"So if they want us to go through ten toilet paper rolls, then I guess they're not gonna like, torture and murder us any time soon," Puck reasoned aloud, hearing the faint hope in his own voice and irritated by the sound of it. He flexed his fingers, testing Santana's work on his hands, and then crossed his arms in a mirror of her posture from where he sat on the bed. "So then what the hell are we here for? Like, who kidnaps two broke people when one of them is a dude? Who kidnaps dudes, period? Except that gay guy who would eat them…shit, you didn't see a pot in the tub or something, did you?"

When the door opened, before Santana could even open her mouth to begin to answer, and four men began to descend the stairs, first shutting the door behind them firmly. Puck didn't notice if they took the time to lock it or not; he was too busy rushing to his feet and instinctively coming to stand in front of Santana, blocking their view of and access to her as his muscles tensed, his hands coming up as though in preparation to fight. He heard Santana gasp behind him, one of her hands reaching out to tightly grab hold of a fistful of the back of his shirt, and his own heart seemed to be relocating to his throat as he half crouched, ready to rush the men were they to come at either of them.

The man in front of the others, though shorter and slimmer in build, seemed nevertheless to be the leader of the group. From his confident, even cocky expression, the unhurried manner of his walk, and the smirk curving his lips, he appeared to be enjoying every moment of the situation, even to be savoring it, dragging it out. He and the other men were no longer wearing masks, and Puck deliberately looked over their faces, memorizing their features, though he would later realize that the logic behind this was not sound. If these men intended to keep them here for some time, it was likely that he and Santana would become very familiar with their faces without having to make any special effort to do so.

The first man was white, perhaps in his mid to late thirties, with light brown hair and of slim yet muscular build. He looked as though he worked out regularly, and though he was of a smaller frame than Puck, and Puck was sure he could beat the hell out of him if he wanted to- and boy, did he fucking want to- the other three behind him were a different story. All of them were over six feet and of a much larger and more muscular build than him. One alone would have been a challenge, but three? Puck knew there was no way he could best them, if it came to that- but it wouldn't stop them from trying. Of the three men, two were African American, one of them bald with a thin mustache, the other's most noteable featuring being his short dreadlocks, and Puck noted this to himself, thinking one advantage could be that he could pull him by the hair. A chick move, yeah, but he'd take what he could get. The third man, who was Caucasian, was also bald, tattoos covering most of his neck and all of his arms. Each of them appeared equally stone-faced, a sharp contrast to their smirking leader as he lead the way down the stairs, stopping only a few feet away from Puck.

"Stay behind me, Santana," Puck murmured back to her, and Santana seemed in no eagerness to disagree or disobey.

He could feel her moving closer and closer to him, brushing against his back, and he thought he heard her breath catch as well as her fingers tightened around his shirt, nearly tearing the material. The protectiveness he felt towards her then was so intense it seemed to him in that moment that the only thing in life that mattered, the only thing he could even conceive of caring about, was keeping her behind him, out of their reach, even out of their sight. Puck could not let them get their hands on her, couldn't let them do whatever it was they might want or be planning- not as long as he was there to put everything he had and more into stopping it. Any lingering anger or resentment towards her was completely gone then as he put himself in between Santana and the men who more than likely wished the both of them harm.

As his hands balled into fists, a flare of pain shot through them from his scraped knuckles, and Puck cursed himself, realizing then that more than likely, it had been his own dogged banging on the door that had drawn the men's attention to the fact that they were now conscious. His own stupidity had brought them right to him, and anything they tried now was his responsibility to stop.

"Well, hello," the smaller, smiling man in the front greeted them both, inclining his head in a seemingly polite and pleasant nod, even as his eyes skipped right past Puck's face to take in what he could see of Santana behind him. Puck felt Santana shudder, and then suddenly she was pressed fully against his back, her breasts flattening against him as she half hid her face against his shoulder, and the urge to defend and shield her from the men only intensified that much more. He wanted to tell her to let go of him, to crawl under the bed and keep herself out of their gaze that much more fully, but the man was still talking, and he had to force himself to at least half listen, knowing he couldn't afford to miss anything that was said.

"The polite way to greet a visitor is to acknowledge his presence and introduce yourselves, but then, I guess a whore and a whore's fellow wouldn't know or offer the common courtesies of more civilized folk," the man chuckled, shaking his head. He gave a mock bow in their direction before continuing, "The name is Remington. First or last, it makes no difference to you, that is what you'll know me by. Your other new friends here are Jeremiah, Vince, and Paul, not that you will be privileged enough to address any of us by our names- not yet, at least. No need to introduce yourselves, I know you both quite well by now- Santana Diabla Lopez and Noah Elijah Puckerman, correct?"

Puck's head snapped up, his spine stiffening, and he felt Santana tense behind him as well as the man- Remington- casually threw out their full names. Puck himself had not known Santana's middle name, and when Remington chuckled again, his eyes darted between the other three- Jeremiah the mustached, Vince the dreadlocked, and Paul the tattooed- as though if he were to examine them enough, he would recognize at least one of them. None of them seemed familiar, though, and based off Santana's silence so far, none were familiar to her either.

"Diabla…correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't the combination of your first and middle name translate to "saintly devil, Miss Lopez?" Remington asked Santana, giving another chuckle and shaking his head with seeming amusement. "With a name like that, I certainly hope you won't disappoint. It's a shame when the product doesn't live up to the advertisement."

"Get the fuck away from her," Puck blurted out without thinking, his voice rougher and louder than he had intended, as his posture returns to a fighting stance, his eyes narrowed, glinting with threatening aggression. "Don't even think about fucking touching her. Stay the hell away from her before all four of you end up dickless."

"Puck, shut up," Santana hissed, digging her nails into his skin, but it was too late.

One word from Remington, and the other three men were lumbering forward towards them, without speed but rather ominous intent in their movements. Puck shouted for Santana to get under the bed, starting forward to meet them, but she clung to his back, seeming as frightened of him moving forward to fight as being left behind while he did so. It didn't matter, in the end. When the three men reached Puck, and the fists began to meet their marks on his ribcage, abdomen, chest, and face, catching him squarely in the cheekbone and jaw, there was no possibility that he could best them in a physical altercation. It was difficult enough to stand as white hot pain shot through multiple parts of him, as he doubled over, having heard several cracking noises at once and unable to identify in the moment of pure pain just where it was he was most hurting. It was impossible to hit back with any force, impossible to continue to stand effectively guarding Santana, and even through his agony he was aware of being dragged away from her, of Santana being left standing alone as Remington made his way towards her, smiling, each step deliberate.

"YOU BASTARDS, LEAVE HIM ALONE! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, STOP IT! PUCK! PUCK!" she was shrieking, her voice shrill with panic and what seemed genuine fear for Puck as much as for herself. "I'M GONNA CUT YOU, I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP SO HARD FOR THIS-"

Her words were abruptly cut off when Remington's arm suddenly snaked around her, pulling her body forcefully against his and crushing her into his chest as his other hand came up to clamp over her mouth. Even as Puck himself fought to stand upright, to find the strength to shake off the rough holds of the three men now latched onto him, he could see through blurry eyes how huge Santana's eyes were, how she was writhing and struggling to get away from him, short grunts that were almost whimpers emerging from behind his hand. Remington spoke over her, loud enough for Puck too to hear.

"Gonna fuck me up, are you? Interesting and very accurate choice of words, darling…"

With that he released her suddenly, shoving her backwards onto the bed, and then quickly covered his body with hers, putting almost his full weight against her. As Puck could do nothing but watch, unable to even effectively draw breath in the moment, let alone fight his way over to help her, Remington, one hand over Santana's mouth again, began to deliberately stroke the other up and down her body, pausing to squeeze her side, her breast, and each thigh as Santana shuddered and seemed to be fighting back screams beneath him. Though she was not crying, Puck could see the tears in her eyes, and it made him feel so singularly violent he shook all over with his rage at his own helplessness.

"Let's just say, Miss Lopez, that I am an avid admirer," Remington said in a slightly quieter tone, but no less loudly or clearly, so that Puck too could hear every word. As he continues to run his hand over her, repeatedly stroking her sides, her breasts, and her legs, Puck could see her trembling, seeming to be holding her breath. "I've seen this hot little body at a distance, and I must say it doesn't disappoint up close and personal."

He squeezed her right breast, just hard enough that Santana flinched, and Puck heard the strangled cry in her throat even behind Remington's clamped hand. As Remington continued to talk, Puck now renewing his efforts to get to her and only receiving another blow to his stomach that left him struggling not to vomit for his efforts, he nevertheless could see Santana's long lashes now wet with tears she was fighting not to let fall.

"Yes, you could call me an admirer…and also a loyal friend to those you had no business involving yourself with," Remington went on, now stroking his hand up Santana's neck and cupping her cheek. Puck saw her squeeze her eyes tightly closed, a single tear escaping beneath her lids, and felt as though his own heart would break out of his chest with his combined rage and anguish at the situation before him.

"You should watch whom you make an enemy of yourself, Miss Lopez," Remington clarified, and his final words made little sense to Puck, but seemed to hit Santana hard. "Brody sends his regards."

Santana's eyes snapped open, almost bulging, and she appeared to be in a state of near shock as she stared back at Remington. Something about what he had said seemed to have "clicked" a lightbulb on for her, but Puck didn't understand at all. He hadn't heard about some Brody guy- was it someone she had worked with or for, a classmate? If this Brody guy was behind all this, because of some issue he had with Santana…what the hell did that mean?

"Why the fuck doesn't this Brody deal with his own shit instead of sending a team of oversized bastards on steroids to dry gulch a dude and play rape threat games on a woman? Can't he get a girl of his own without having to take a friggin' lesbian, hold her down, and practically tie her up in a fucking basement?" Puck blurted in spite of himself.

He was rewarded for his words with a sharp backhand across the face, and as he felt blood begin to trickle from his nose, renewed pain flaring through his cheekbones, Remington lifted his eyes calmly to address him, even as he remained over Santana.

"You want to play hero, boy, keep her out of harm's way? You like this girl, you feel something for her?" Hand still over Santana's mouth, gripping her cheeks, he shook her head around roughly, letting the back of her head hit the bed with each shaking. "Then listen and do as I say. You keep your mouth shut and your fists down, or she'll be keeping her legs open all night long."

There was no way Puck could have held his temper then. Whether or not it was wise, whether or not it was helpful or safe, he could not stand there and hear this man threatening to rape his friend, one of HIS girls, and still remain silent and motionless in response. No matter what it would do to her, no matter what it would do to him, he couldn't stand it, and so he disregarded Remington's words, instead straining with his upper body with fresh determination to break away from the other men's hold of him. Puck wasn't even aware of what he was screaming and swearing back at the man, but it was certainly vulgar and aggressive in tone- and again, there were near immediate consequences.

As the blows began again, Puck no longer was sure where he was being hit and where he wasn't; his whole body seemed one mass of white hot pain until he could no longer stand unsupported and all vision came in a blur. Even so, he could make out enough to see Remington, waiting until Puck was looking his way, before he removed his hand from Santana's mouth just long enough to seal his mouth over hers, forcing her to submit to his assault via kiss. He had barely concluded his before he backhanded her across the face, then abruptly stood, leaving her still lying back, gasping for breath, on the bed as he strode towards the basement stairs.

"Come on," he called over his shoulder to the other men, "Leave them. I think our brave little hero man here needs some more time to think about the decisions he's making."

Almost as a parting shot, he directed towards Puck alone, "We could use some more men like you in our services, Noah Puckerman…and if you truly care for this bitch, then you won't think twice about becoming exactly what we will require of you."

They ascended the stairs then, locking the door firmly shut behind them with a loud click that seemed to echo throughout the now-quiet basement walls. For a minute or two all Puck could manage to do was take in pained, staggering breaths through slightly whistling lungs, listen to the pounding of his heart in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to sprint after the men, to throw them down the stairs and kick them unconscious in the head, to get in between them and the door and break out before they could stop him. But he could not even stand upright on his own, not without great difficulty, and when he finally managed, clutching the bedpost, to pull himself to his feet, the red vorbs of light that flashed across his vision and the pain that gripped his frame nearly made him crumple back to the ground. It was with extreme effort he finally managed to sit on the edge of the bed, where Santana remained, now curled up into a ball, her eyes closed, face turned away from him so only the bony ridge of her back and spine were visible to him.

Looking at her, Puck swallows against his disgust as he remembers Remington's spidery hand roaming over her chest and between her legs, his threats for sexual violation against her. If he feels enraged and disgusted remembering, how much more so must she feel, to have had it happen to her? She isn't moving, and he can hear her uneven breaths, as though she is struggling still against tears, before he finally brings himself to reach out to her, touching the most prominent section of her spine before quickly shifting his hand to her shoulder. It seemed safer to touch her there, on a less fragile and vulnerable part of her, more comforting, and Puck took another slow breath in, feeling a fairly intense pain in his chest before he could fight through it to speak to her.

"San…San, are you okay?"


	3. Chapter 3

5  
As soon as he touched her he felt her shaking intensify, and Santana scooted away from the tips of his fingers, denying his attempt to touch. "D-don't," she whispers, her voice shaking, and as she took a deep breath, then slowly sat up, keeping a deliberate distance in between them, Puck remained motionless, hands now tightly gripping his thighs as he tried to maintain a semblance of control of his emotions. Guilt, shame, anger, sympathy for her and helplessness for himself remained within him all at once and he could not seem to have any idea of what to do to help either one of them.

When Santana took another breath in, then turned to face him, there were still tears in her eyes that she was blinking hard against, but she was at least looking over him now, assessing his damage, even as her eyes filled with shock and horror at the extent of his damage. Puck had a feeling that his reflection in the bathroom mirror, whenever he got a chance to look into it, wasn't going to win him any stud contests any time soon.

"Oh fuck…oh god, look what they did to you, those BASTARDS," Santana stammered, her voice higher in pitch than usual, and almost immediately she reached for the hem of Puck's shirt, trying to tug it upward even as he hissed aloud in pain. "We have to clean you up, we have to…oh fuck, Puck, they hurt you so bad…are you…fuck…"

She managed to wrangle his shirt off him, then jumped up to get the first aid kit she had returned to the bathroom earlier, reemerging with towels and damp washcloths as well. As her fingers ghosted lightly over Puck's ribs, nevertheless causing him to suck in his breath with pain, she mumbled to herself as much as to him, " I think they cracked some…look at your face, god, look at this…"

She was wiping off his blood with alcohol sterilized pads then, but she stopped, tears beginning at last to overflow down her cheeks, a sob shaking her frame as she lowered her face, her voice dropping lower. "They hurt you so bad…"

The last thing Puck wanted then, the last thing he felt capable of handling, was watching Santana Lopez starting to cry. He spoke up fast then, wanting to deflect it before she got too far into it, reaching out a scraped fist to gently knuckle her cheek as he kept his voice flippant but soft in response to her.

"Hey, Lopez, come on now, where's my badass Latina when we need her? It's not that bad. Doesn't hurt that much either, those guys are bigger wusses than they look," he lied, trying his hardest not to betray himself with a flinch or grimace when her fingers lifted to intertwine with his, squeezing hard.

He squeezed back, noting then how small her hand was in his, that in comparison to his, her fingers were almost tiny. He held her hand and tried to force back the dark thoughts coming into his mind, of how much larger the men were than her, how badly they could hurt her, and how little he could really do about it, should they get it in their heads to try.

No, he wouldn't think that, he wouldn't even acknowledge it as anything like a possibility. He would never let them touch her again. No matter what he had to do, no matter what he had to say or what they might do to him, he couldn't let them touch her again. He just couldn't.

"I'm fine, Lopez, I got worse playing football. And what do you think the Air Force is gonna do to me, especially when I have to show up late?" he tried to lighten the mood, giving her a small, forced smile and squeezing her hand again, but Santana didn't return his smile.

She just held onto his hand, wiping at the tears that were not yet lessening in their frequency in coming with her free hand, and said nothing, taking in a deep breath. Watching her, Puck unconsciously ground his back teeth, trying with some desperation to think of what to say to her. He couldn't stand to watch this in her much longer. Part of him vaguely suspected that she was crying out of some kind of delayed shock of the situation, of Remington touching her, more than because she was actually worried about him, or maybe because she was scared over the men's threats to her. Whatever the reason, it was a reaction in Santana that Puck had never seen before, and it made him deeply uneasy and uncomfortable. He was supposed to be taking care of her now, whether or not anyone had appointed this as his official role, this was obviously the only option he could accept. He couldn't be doing a very good job, if this was her current reaction.

"Hey, I'm not worried here, 'Tana," he lied again, fighting to keep his voice neutral, even light in tone. "Kinda lucky, right, 'cause out of all the nurses they coulda left me with to patch me up, they picked a hot one who actually can rock the costume, and who's got experience wearing it too. What better end of the deal could I get here?"

Then more seriously, he took her by the chin, lifting her face up to his as he lowered his voice, making it almost stern in tone. "Come on, San, stop crying. Not over this shit. Don't let them win, right? Come on."

This more than the joking seemed to make an impact on her, as she took in another deep breath, sniffling, and then nodded, swallowing hard before lifting her free hand to scrub across both eyes. A few more breaths in and Santana had managed to cut off her tears, to which Puck, relieved, exhaled himself, leaning in to give her temple an impulsive kiss.

"There's my girl. Now you were gonna do the hot nurse thing, right?"

"Shut up or I'm gonna make you have an enema," Santana shot back, but she was giving him a small smile now, and she let go of his hand, standing again to renew her efforts at helping him.

As she continued to cleanse, bandage, and disinfect the best that she could, given her limited supplies and medical knowledge, Puck tried to hold still for her, keep from showing pain as much as was possible, so as not to provoke further emotional responses from her and also not wanting to provide any sort of satisfaction for the men who had caused it. For all he knew they had some kind of video camera down here and were watching every second, getting off on their misery. Santana seemed to pull herself together, to regain some of her usual confidence as she worked on him, even occasionally snapping at him or giving him a bossy-sounding order, and by the time she had finished up and returned her objected used back to the bathroom, Puck had already began to form a hazy plan in his head. As she rejoined him, sitting down next to him on the bed and looking him over critically, he met her eyes with his, speaking to her calmly but firmly.

"Look, San. Next time they come in here, here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna promise you right now, they're never gonna touch you again. None of them. I'm never gonna let that happen, so this is what's gotta happen. When they come in, you head straight to the bathroom and shut the door, lock yourself in if you can. I'll stand in front of it and block you off, I'm not gonna let them get to you. Okay?"

But clearly this was not an okay proposal for Santana, from the look of near outrage she gave him in response. Shaking her head emphatically, she nearly glared at him, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and jutting her chin towards him defiantly.

"No fucking way, Noah Puckerman. You know exactly what would happen, they'd beat the hell out of you and punt you out the way, then do whatever they were gonna do anyway. Don't you dare."

"It's the only way, San," Puck started, "I'm not gonna stand back and let them do whatever they want. You get in the bathroom if I have to pick you up and throw you in there myself."

"And then what, Puck? After they hurt you or kill you or whatever they do to get to me, where does that leave me?" she pointed out, giving an incredulous laugh that was very much laughing in humor, eyebrows raised ."We're in a basement. I can't escape out a window or I'd be long gone. I'm stuck in a corner and they'll probably be worse, and meanwhile, you're probably too hurt to move or dead out there, and then where the hell will I be without you?"

And then, to his horror, her eyes were starting to mist over again, her lips quivering before she flattened them into a thin line, and Santana latched both hands onto his upper arm, holding on so tightly Puck flinched before he could steel himself not to. Not seeming to notice, she continued to squeeze, her voice dropping, emotion creeping in.

"Don't you dare let them kill you over me. Don't you dare leave me here alone. I…we…we already lost someone, don't you dare make me lose you too. You can't leave me, Puck. We both go or we both stay, we both live or we both die. Promise me. Promise!"

She was near tears again, blinking them back frequently as she looked up at him, her expression pleading, naked with a need that left Puck nearly speechless. He dropped his eyes, knowing very well that there could be only one response to this request, but reluctant to give it. How could he promise her this, if refusing to would keep her safe…but how could he refuse her, when she wanted this, seemed to need it, so much?

She was right, in a way. If they got through him, they would go straight to her, probably angrier than ever by his lack of cooperation. If they killed him, where would that leave her? Who would protect her then?

Finally, exhaling again, Puck gave a slow, very reluctant nod. Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her against his side, trying to ignore the pained protest of his body at the movement as he kissed the top of her head. "Okay. Okay, you win, 'Tana. I promise. Not gonna leave you."

He felt her let out a shaky breath against him, heard her soft reply somewhere against his side. "Good…good." And then she was turning into him, burrowing more closely into his side, letting her face come to press against his chest, and every small movement she made, even the light weight against him, made his recently cleaned wounds, even with his shirt having been placed back over them,sing and shriek in pain, but Puck didn't ask her to move. He wouldn't have wanted her to. Instead, he kissed her head again and ran one hand up and down her back, letting her settle into him.

"Gonna be okay, Lopez," he tells her quietly, though he knows she must know he is more than likely lying. "Gonna be okay."

But Santana doesn't challenge him. She simply nods into his chest, and for some time they remain together in silence, gathering energy for what lay in store for them.


	4. Chapter 4

They must have dozed off at some point, because some time later Puck became suddenly aware of a weight against his chest and legs, of something soft and smelling faintly floral tickling his nose, and he wasn't sure at first what it was that he was encountering. Another few seconds, as he slowly opened his eyes, and then he understood, just as he had the first time he had awakened, that he was feeling Santana, that he was holding her close to his chest in what could only accurately be described as a cuddle.

Those initial first few seconds were not met with relief at interpreting what was occurring, or enjoyment at having a lovely girl so close to him, close enough that he could feel her breasts pressing into his chest, one leg partly between his, so he could literally smell her. No, none of that mattered to Puck, at least not at first, not more than distantly in a purely physical sense. What hit him then was severe, almost paralyzing disappointment- because if he could still feel Santana in the same bed with him, the thin springs of the mattress beneath them still poking into his hip, then that meant that everything had been real after all.

He was slow to open his eyes then, reluctant to fully confirm what he already knew to be true. But of course, there they were, in the dimly lit and very depressing basement, their captors not within sight but no doubt able and willing to access them at any point they chose. Looking down at Santana, who was breathing deeply, hair strewn over her face and part of Pucks as well, her hands in fists, gently pressing into his chest, Puck tried not to move her, not yet wanting her to wake up. The longer he could have where she wasn't conscious and either flipping out, bickering with him, or aware of their reality at all again, the better it probably was.

Still, her hair was really tickling him, to the point he thought he might sneeze. Trying to be careful about it, Puck extracted one hand from her back to attempt to slowly lift the strands from his face, but she must have been sleeping more lightly than he had thought, because she stirred than, squinting her eyes at him groggily.

"What…"

"'S'ok, Lopez," Puck said quickly, not wanting fists to start flying before she was fully awake. "You can go back to sleep or whatever if you want."

But Santana was already pulling away from him, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes, and then she was standing, turning in a small half circle as she took in their surroundings. Seeming to come to the same conclusion that Puck had, which was that the nightmare she may have assumed to be unreal was in fact all too present in her reality, she sat back on the bed heavily, her shoulders slumping, lips twisting downward.

"Fuck."

It was a pretty good assessment of Puck's own thoughts, and he half smirked in spite of himself. Sitting up too, his shoulder lightly brushing hers, he glanced down at her wrist and saw that she was wearing a watch.

"How long were we asleep?"

"Maybe a couple of hours…it's early evening," Santana told him after looking down at her watch. "Okay, so, if they got us last night at…what time was it, ten, maybe? And it's now five…they've had us for almost a DAY?"

Her voice rose incredulously, and she stood again, beginning to pace the room, her head turning back and forth as though looking for something. "Okay. And if it's been a few hours since they were here…where are we, where are they, and are they planning on giving us food any time soon because they can't just leave us down here to starve to death slowly or anything. Right? They're not doing that shit. They were doing their sex talk, you don't starve someone you want to fuck because then how will they have energy. Unless they like the silent passive types. Or the dead types."

Her eyes bulged then as a new and much more disturbing thought appeared to strike her. "Puck, they don't like dead types, do they? No way are they gonna starve us to death so they can fuck my corpse. Because they'd just kill me and have it other with. Unless they want to build up their own anticipation or maybe they don't get turned on by a murdered corpse, just a peaceful natural death one. Do you think-"

"Santana, don't be crazy, don't lose your shit here," Puck interrupted her, his voice rougher than was probably needed, but the truth was that he was getting queasy and anxious thinking about what grim picture she was drawing up for him. "We're not living in a Hannibal Lecter movie, does either one of us look like Jodie Foster?"

"Jodie Foster didn't get eaten by Hannibal Lecter, dumbass," Santana pointed out, but she did sound calmer, and he saw her take a visible breath, steadying herself. "Fine, maybe they won't eat us but they can still not bring us food. They were talking about giving us time to think, what if they meant time where they won't check on us or give us food or maybe they'll cut off our water in the bathroom so we can't even have that?"

"Don't worry about it now," Puck rolled his eyes, though he had to say now that she was mentioning it that he was pretty hungry himself. "Did you even check the water before you get all crazy over it? We can like a few days off water before we keel over, right?"

"More like a few months," was Santana's absent response as she went into the bathroom, checking the sink's handles. To both their relief, as Puck followed her, the water worked fine, and she sighed, turning it back off. "We could have drank out the toilet if we had to, though no way in hell would anything but certain death without it make me drink after these bastard's shit. And I'm good with the hungry thing, guess there's the advantage of being a Cheerio for so long. But your huge ass would probably pass out if you went a day without your regularly scheduled Twinkie fix."

It probably would have been a better decision for Puck to let that one go. He knew they were both scared and upset, that Santana was reacting as Santana always did, taking control with her words if not with her circumstances. But Puck felt himself instinctively draw up, and the first thing he could think of was exactly what he knew would hurt most.

"Who's Brody, Santana?"

When he saw her freeze, slowly sucking in her breath, he stepped closer to her, eyebrows raised, tone deliberate.

"Because those dudes who put us there? It sounds like they're blaming it all on some dude named Brody. Some dude YOU know named Brody. You mind telling me what some dude named Brody that you know has to do with us being here now?"

He watched the muscles of her jaw work, her eyes drop to the side, and he took another step closer, taking her by the shoulders. Leaning into her, now in her space, Puck keeps his voice low but insistent.

"Who is Brody, Santana? What the hell happened with you and this guy to get us into this shit?"

"It wasn't my fault!" she snapped, even as her eyes belied her belief in her own words. "I was just helping Rachel! It wasn't my fault!"

"Well if it was clear to everyone it wasn't your fault, would you really have to keep saying it?" Puck shot back at her, not letting go of her shoulders. "You better start talking, Santana. Tell me what the hell is going on, now."

"Let go of me!" she snapped, shoving at his chest and backing away from his reach, out of the bathroom entirely. She didn't go to sit on the bed or head towards the stairs; instead she paced, arms tightly crossed over her chest as Puck followed after her, practically stepping on her heels.

"Who's Brody, Santana?"

"He's Rachel's ex boyfriend, so the fuck what?" she snapped back, and the first piece of the puzzle clicked into place for Puck. He knew very well how protective she could be of her friends, how that circle of fierce loyalty had recently come to include Rachel as well.

"And what the hell did you do to him to send him off the deep end, Santana? Did you threaten to cut off his balls, remove his testosterone by hand, what the hell did you do?"

"Don't you blame this on me, Puckerman!" Santana stopped her pacing, turning to face Puck with both hands help up as though to ward him off from her, her lips drawing into a thin line, eyebrows slanting in towards her nose. "This isn't my fault!"

But although she was saying this, and had been from the start, Puck could see in the way her eyes flitted away from him, her shoulders rounding in, that she wasn't so sure about that. That at least part of her doubted this and was in fact questioning her role in all of this, and this is what he seized on.

Maybe Santana hadn't meant for this to happen and couldn't have predicted the outcome. But something she had said or done had set it off, he was sure of it, and it just seemed to him that if he could somehow, in some way blame this all on her, then it would at least for a time make himself feel better, more in control. Maybe by putting blame on Santana, he could excuse from himself what he had failed to stop too.

"Don't give me this shit, Santana, you spend all that time in the alley running your mouth about how no one watches you, no one would ever take your scrawny ass, and here we are. Then you go on and on about how this isn't your fault and no one who knows you or saw you would do this, it all just magically occurred around you without you having anything to do with any of it, and now you tell me Rachel's ex-boyfriend who you personally know and called by name has something to do with this, and you STILL tell me it ain't your fault? Stop playing games, Santana! Tell me what the hell you did to this guy to make him hire a bunch of 250 pound dudes to stick needles in our necks, throw us in a friggin' dungeon, beat the shit out of me and threaten to fuck you ten ways to Sunday!" Puck nearly shouted.

He was very close to Santana now, standing in her space, not quite touching her, but certainly close enough to do so if either of them moved the slightest bit. But as close as he was, she was refusing to look back at him, her face fully turned to the side. And although she was holding herself stiffly, her jaw set in seeming defiance, when she finally answered him, the strain in her voice, seeming to be barely suppressing tears, was as obvious as her anger.

"He was a fucking hooker, okay?!" she nearly shouted back at him, though her arms remained tightly crossed over her chest, as though she were holding herself physically together by doing so. "Rachel was dating him and he didn't bother to tell her he was a fucking hooker. He was sleeping with her and lying to her and going off fucking other women AND other men every night, and she totally didn't believe me, she kicked me out of the apartment because I was MEAN to him! What the hell else could I do? Of course I had to get her to figure out what happened! So I…I called Finn…" here her voice stumbled, and Puck saw her hand go up, rapidly wiping at the corner of one eye before she immediately recrossed her arms. "I called Finn and told him because he should KNOW what was going on, he still loved her and she was going to end up getting some hooker disease, and I needed back in the fucking apartment, I didn't have anywhere to go! And he…Finn…he sort of beat him up and threatened him a little, and then Rachel broke up with him….and…kicked him out of the apartment and took me back instead…"

Her voice trailed off then, and Puck noticed that her fingertips were digging into the crooks of her elbows so tightly that they had gone white even before she concluded with increased intensity, "It was NOT my fault…"

But listening to what Santana had just told him had just brought Puck to two conclusions. The first was how very serious their situation really was, as her explanation of Brody's identity and connections to these men, of the situation that had lead up to his obvious choice to take vengeance against her. It all made sense in a terrible way. Santana had scorned, humiliated, and lost him his girl due to his profession, however justified she may have viewed her actions as being…and now, it seemed, Brody was determined that she receive an even greater hurt and humiliation in return. And if he truly was a male prostitute, and these men were associated with him, what did that make them- pimps, johns, some kind of gigolo guards? Who was Remington, the head john, some kind of brothel master?

Whatever the case, this was a dangerous situation for them both, but mostly for Santana. Puck remembered all too well the threats that Remington had leveled at her, his hands on her breasts, between her legs, and now he knew all too clearly that the man more than likely intended to make good on them. He could make Santana out to be his newest whore, and what could she really do about it, if all those men teamed up to force her into submission?

And what would that make Puck? Would he be forced into male prostitution- becoming the newest Brody?

The thought was enough to make him nauseous. He couldn't imagine being forced to sleep with another guy, without even any alcohol to try to help him through. How the hell would he get it up for another dude without puking all over them both? He'd bite a guy's dick off before he'd let him stick it in his mouth.

And Santana…how could he let them take her out of his sight, or worse, keep her right in front of him where he has to see every second of them stripping her down and-

No. He couldn't think about it, he wouldn't let it happen. Better to focus on how pissed off he was at her, or should be at her. Better to just think about yelling, about blaming her, about making this a reason for scorn towards her rather than for fear for her. It was easier to cope that way, and so this was what Puck seized upon.

"Way to go, Santana. You can't keep your mouth shut and your nose out of other people's business, not once? You gotta be so eager to get your hands in there fucking up other people's lives, you can't rest until anyone else is miserable, can you? As long as you get to look like you're on top, as long as you get to feel better than anyone else even if your own life is fucked, doesn't matter what the hell happens afterward, does it?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Santana started, her mouth dropping open, anger and shock both now lining her brow, but Puck wasn't finished. He knew even as he spoke that he wasn't being fair, that Santana could not possibly have known how her decisions would turn out, that she seemed to have been genuinely trying to look out for Rachel, and in fact, he most likely would have made the same decision himself- if he wasn't the one beating on Brody, like Finn had. But none of this really matters to him in the moment. What matters is that Santana had done it, not him, and she is the one he can blame, at least for the next few minutes.

"You want to act like you were looking out for Rachel, keeping her from being with an asshole? Yeah right, Lopez, tell us a new one. What you really wanted was to make sure that Rachel found out in the most dramatic way possible that her boyfriend was a douche, what you really wanted to make sure of was that she would feel like an idiot and look at you like some kind of hero when really you were enjoying every second of it. You wanna act like you're Rachel's friend, like you're so concerned for her and you were just helping her out, you wanna act like you were doing her a favor? When the hell have you ever done Rachel Berry or anyone else but yourself a favor for no reason, Lopez, other than that it benefited you? Don't even give me that shit. You started this out because you liked watching it blow, and now you're getting the fallout at last and you ain't liking it. Thanks a hell of a lot for bringing me into the shit you set up so I can get dragged through it too."

He expected Santana to start screaming back at him, to point fingers and push his chest and start denying it all, firing back insults and accusations. He expected her to call him names and tell him he didn't know or understand anything, to start listing all the reasons that she and Rachel were friends now and he was just an ignorant ass. But she didn't do any of that. Instead, her eyes took on a wounded, wet look that was quickly turned from his view as she turned around entirely, and he watched her retreat with every muscle held tautly she seemed on the verge of cracking in two.

"Don't talk to me again. Ever," was her only ground out reply, before she went into the bathroom, slammed the door behind her, and he heard the lock click into place. The only thing that occurred to Puck then as a positive as he slunk back down on the bed, running his hand over his hair with a frustrated sigh, was that she had inadvertently done exactly as he wanted her to- she had barricaded herself in the bathroom, where it would be hardest for the men to get to her. Even if he had had to really upset or piss her off first to accomplish that, he guessed he'd take what positive he could get.


	5. Chapter 5

Although Santana had sworn she was never going to speak to Puck again, it was only about twenty minutes before he heard the shower running, and within an hour's time, approximately, she reappeared back into the main area of the basement, redressed in the clothes she had been wearing the day before, hair damp and loose over her shoulders. She didn't look at him or speak to him as she rejoined him, instead standing in a rather defensive stance, arms crossed over her chest, as she watched him slowly pace the basement floor in a circle. Puck had no real reason to be doing this; he already knew from experience that there was little hope of breaking down the door, and there was no other exit in the basement. But he felt a need to be moving, to be doing something active, even if he could not do something productive, and so he paced, arms crossed over his chest in an unconscious mirroring of Santana, avoiding looking in her direction.

They do not speak to each other, and Puck does all he can not to look at her, although he can feel Santana's eyes on him, watching his every move. Something about knowing that she's looking at him makes him feel that much more anxious and edgy, as though he is somehow expected by her to do something or say something more, and he clinches his jaw, continuing to pace while even more doggedly doing what he could to avoid looking her way. If she expects an apology or a described course of action from him, she's going to be disappointed. It's not like she would listen to it or really hear it anyway.

Puck can hear his stomach growling every so often, and this too spurs him on in his pacing. If he can just walk fast enough and make his mind empty enough, he won't be able to focus, hopefully, on the fact that he's hungry, that he has no idea and no control over when he will be able to eat. If he can just focus on putting one foot in front of the other he won't have to think that maybe that chance to do so is never going to come, that maybe the "time to think" that Remington had mentioned had been inclusive of all the time that was left in his sorry life. If he just kept going, maybe-

"Will you stop it already, Puckerman, you're making me dizzy," Santana snapped suddenly, finally breaking the silence between them, and when Puck glanced back at her, he saw that she was now leaning against a wall, shaking her head, her lips thinned out into a nearly straight line. As much to defy her as because he wanted to do so for his own sake, Puck continued to pace, only now he brought his circle closer to her, nearly brushing her body with his as he passed her.

"Thought you were never gonna talk to me again, Lopez," was his only remark to her, though he knew very well that it was hardly the most gracious or wise response. He didn't look at her again after that, but he heard her suck in her breath, as though she were fighting for self-control, fighting to suppress a flare of anger, and her tone was controlled when she spoke again.

"If you want to wear down your last bit of energy after getting beat like a redheaded stepchild in a large Mexican familia and kept without food for over a day, when you know we got four huge dudes that could bust in here and beat you some more any time they feel like it, I guess you go for it, in fact, step it up a notch, start turning friggin' cartwheels and doing jumping jacks. I'm sure being the next Jillian Michaels is totally gonna help you heal up and kick ass. Who am I to get in the way of such sound decisions?"

She had a pretty valid point, not that Puck wanted to acknowledge it aloud to her. He paced a few more times just as though to convey to her that she wasn't doing anything to affect his own behaviors, and he did have the intention of stopping- after just one more revolution around the room. But Santana's patience was on par with his stubbornness, and she reached out a hand to snag his arm, thin fingers squeezing slightly.

"Stop it already and let me look at your stupid ribs again. You're probably gonna have a bone just stab through your skin and just keep on plodding, dumbass."

"You don't need to look at my ribs," Puck pulled out of her grasp, though he did stop moving. Backing a step away from her, he scowled towards her, now able to have a new focus yet again- bickering with Santana, seizing on irritation with her, somewhat more than he really felt or was warranted- to continue to distract himself from the harsher reality of their situation. After all, what else could he do- what else did he have any control of whatsoever?

"I'm fine, Lopez. I know you can't resist touching up on this, but you're gonna have to try 'cause I ain't in the mood."

"Please, like your B cup man tits, shoulder lumps, and the five inches you're packing really got me hot and bothered," Santana rolled her eyes, grabbing at his shirt hem and attempting to pull it up over his head. Though her touch was gentle, there was irritation still in her eyes, an edge to her tone, and Puck tried to push her hands away as she continued. "I know it's near impossible for you, but try not to be a dumbass over this. You think you're fuckin' Superman and you get a beat down for it, and then you're gonna just ignore it so you can have your nonexistent pride or whatever? Don't flatter yourself, it's not that I actually care if you wanna walk around fucked over, but I do care that I need you to be able to like, actually stand up without passing out if those…"

Here she swallows, her hands stilling briefly, bravado faltering before she makes herself finish the sentence, her voice noticeably less strident. "If those assholes come back for me. So don't be stupid. Let me look."

It was the last thing Puck wanted to think about or acknowledge right now, because although he knew Santana had a point- if he was going to stand any shot at all of protecting either of them, he would have to be in the best shape possibly to try- he also knew that it more than likely didn't matter if he was fully healthy and healed up or not. There were four of them and one of them. They were larger and stronger and had the benefit of weapons and keys and any other resources they wanted at their fingertips. If they wanted to hurt either one of them, they would, and it wouldn't much matter if Puck had healed rips and a lack of cuts and bruises or not.

He shared none of this aloud with her, however. He didn't tell Santana that he was afraid for her, that he wanted to protect her. He didn't tell her that his face and chest ached and his ribs hissed with persistent pain. He did let her take his shirt off, beginning to run gentle hands over his ribs, but as much to keep himself from yelling out at her touch from anything, he chose instead to focus on her initial insults to him, and to give them back to her in kind.

"Funny how the chick who had to slice and dice just to get outta her training bra would want to comment on someone else's supposed tits," Puck shot back at her, his eyes deliberately shifting down to regard Santana's surgically enlarged chest meaningfully. "I don't need your help, Santana. Look how much you already helped me out, trying to "help" me with a friggin' shortcut through a dark alley really "helped" me tons. What, you gonna "help" my ribs now by accidentally jabbing them with a mascara wand or something?"

He noted with no real satisfaction that Santana's hands had frozen against his chest before she snatched them back, immediately recrossing her arms over her chest. And although her tone was icy, he saw the flicker of what looked like hurt and insecurity in her eyes before she hardened her tone, biting back her reply.

"You gonna rag on my boobs, get it fucking right, Puckerman. I was an A cup, that's not a fucking training bra, and now I'm a 34C, which you would probably know something about since you probably could borrow my bras yourself. And by the way it didn't seem like you minded my boobs after OR before the surgery 'cause you about ground them into nothing in my chest pressing them down like you were rolling friggin' dough. And don't you dare start telling me how this is all my fault again, I swear I'm gonna break your fucking ribs myself if they're not already if you go down that road."

"You sure about that, 'cause they look like they're deflating over time. Kinda like air going out of tires after they get too old and overused," Puck tried to smirk at her, but the expression went flat before it left his mouth, and he could hear in his tone a harshness that he didn't entirely feel or intend. He started to comment on the second part of Santana's words, but Santana was already cutting him off, jabbing a finger in his face, her face reddening with her anger, her free hand gesturing broadly.

"Shut the fuck up, Puckerman! God, I hate you! One minute you're practically inviting me to start fucking you and the next you're talking shit, what's your fucking problem?"

"Problems, what the hell could possibly be my problem?" Puck spread out his arms, voice raising slightly, though even this simple gesture pulled his ribs painfully enough that he couldn't hide his flinch. "Here I am stuck in this basement with rapist pimp dudes beating the hell out of me, rape threating you, with the chick who was too stupid and selfish to just let something fucking go and got us both here in the first place 'cause she couldn't just let something fucking go BEFORE, when I'm supposed to be starting my life over in the fucking Air Force instead of sitting down here bitching with you! And while we're at it, no, Lopez, I ain't inviting you to fuck me, 'cause I'm pretty sure that all went out the window when you went gay and started being in love with a chick. Who, by the way, is so over you she would rather marry a dude with lips like Angelina Jolie who's basically made it with every other chick in Glee and a bunch outside it too than with you. Yeah, what could possibly be my problem here?"

Puck knew he had taken things too far when he saw the stricken look come over Santana's features, the way she literally flinched, as though he had hit her. For a second she just looked at him, her mouth slightly open, her eyes growing wet, and he thought that she was going to turn on her heels and stalk back to lock herself into the bathroom, or maybe she would burst into tears. But instead her hand shot out, slapping him across the face for the second time in two days. And as small as she was, Santana Lopez knew how to bitchslap hard.

He would try to blame the pain that flared through his face then on his already acquired injuries, but even so, it was almost embarrassing that he actually had to lift his hand to his face to touch his stinging cheek as Santana went off on him. She was standing even closer than she had been before, almost close enough that he could have leaned in to kiss her- not that he had any inclination whatsoever to do that in the moment. Chest heaving, her breathing slightly fast and shallow, she tilted her face up towards him, her voice intent with feeling, nearly a hiss.

"You want me to stop giving a shit about you, you want me to leave you alone? You've got it, FUCKERMAN, ain't nothing you can do to make me care anymore. You can walk around with half your guts and your entire skeletal structure hanging out and I'm gonna sit back and whistle Beyonce tunes, you hear me? You think I'm the worst person in the world to be stuck down here with, well, FINE, next time those assholes come down here, you can ask one of them to lock you up with them in a room all to yourself. Let them beat the shit out of you, let them fuck you in every hole you got, who cares, as long as you're not with me? You want to sit back and hate me and act like I'm some stupid worthless whore, you do whatever the hell you want, but don't you DARE bring Brittany into it."

She finally backed away from him then, arms now tightly recrossed over her chest, head down as she turned away from him, facing the wall. She wasn't pacing or sitting, or doing anything in particular other than repeatedly scuffing the toe of her shoe into the wall, the sound of it against the concrete floor very much annoying Puck to hear.

Puck tries to ignore her. The last thing he wants is for her to think that he in any way was affected by her hitting him, that he is at all bothered by her words or even by her being upset. He knew he had said too much, that he should never have brought Sam and Brittany into it. He knew, deep down, that even if Santana had in a roundabout way resulted in his being here with her, he couldn't genuinely blame her for what had happened. In a way he was even sort of glad that he was there too- for at least the very small reason that he could, by being here with her, know what was happening to her, in some small way try to protect her. He wasn't glad that he was here for his own sake, but for Santana…

It was very strange, that any part of him could still want to be here with her, for her sake, even sort of glad that he was, given the circumstances and what was currently occurring between them. But it was true, and this was the reason he kept watching her, not yet saying anything, even as she did all she could to completely attempt to block out his existence without actually leaving the room.

He could see that she was shaking slightly, her legs twitching, and wondered with begrudging concern whether this was because she was so tired still or because she was upset. He could see her fingertips, again digging into her arms, and as she continued to scuff her foot, he noticed that she was now beginning to kick it into the wall rhythmically and with increasing force.

Reluctant guilt gnawed at his thoughts, compressing his chest, and Puck watched her for a few more moments, debating whether or not to say or do something in response to it. She had started this, after all. It was her fault they were here…sort of. And she had hit him. And she had kept trying to boss him around and touch him and "fix" him when she couldn't, and he had just wanted her to leave him alone. This was totally her fault, if she ended up getting her feelings hurt or getting pissed off because of it.

Still, without quite wanting to, Puck found himself repeatedly glancing at her all the same, wanting to say something- what, he didn't know. Wanting to stand up and walk to her, wanting to at least partly take back what had happened. As infuriating as she could be, she was still the only person here with him, and he did have an obligation towards her. So taking a slow breath in, running a hand through his hair, Puck took a step towards her, though he knew better than to come within striking range. Sighing, he spoke to her, his tone somewhat irritable, but holding a note of concern.

"Whatever, Lopez. You're the one calling yourself a whore, not me." He paused, then asked reluctantly, "You're not gonna cry, are you? 'Cause that would really be a friggin headache right now."

"Leave me alone, Puckerman," Santana ground out, but he could hear the slight unsteadiness to her voice, and he saw from her profile that she was swallowing, raising her chin higher as though to try to ward back unwelcome emotion. "You don't want me to help, then get off my ass. You think it's all my fault, don't talk to me. You don't want to be here with me, then just go lock your own fucking self in the closet and let whatever happens happen. I don't need you feeling like you have to do shit for me if that's the way you feel. I'm a big girl, I can fucking handle it. If I got something coming to me then what the fuck ever, I'll deal like I always do."

But not ten seconds after she had finished speaking Puck saw her suck in a long, shuddering breath, her arms adjusting to hold herself even more tightly, and he knew that she more than likely didn't mean at least three quarters of what she was saying. He didn't take time to analyze his reply; it was automatic, flat, and final.

"No. Like hell am I leaving you alone. I said I wasn't gonna leave you, no matter how big of a bitch you are or how much you piss me off, and I don't back down from that, Santana. Not even an option. Besides, you know damn well you can't handle shit with these dudes on your own. You're a twig, you ain't ate or barely slept all day, and there's four of them. So let's cut the crap here and get to the real deal, okay? We don't gotta like each other, we don't gotta be cool with each other in any kinda way, but we do gotta have each other's backs, because if we don't we're fucked, and I ain't talking the fun way. Literally fucked, Santana, so we gotta get this straight."

He saw her take another breath, her head incline slightly, one hand rising up to steeple her temples, shoulders slumping. He watched her, and then certain words of her replayed themselves in his mind, suddenly sticking out with all too important meaning.

"Wait a second. What do you mean, if you got something coming to you? What do you mean, you'll DEAL with it? You think it's cool that you would just DEAL with them beating you or…jesus, Santana, maybe we ain't exactly singing kumbaya together but there's no way in hell I'm sitting back twiddling my thumbs while they pound you through the fucking bed, whether that be with their fists or their dicks or both!"

Her breath escaped in a loud exhalation then, almost a gasp or a cry more so than a breath, and he watched her shoulders slump forward even more. Even from only seeing her profile he could see her face working, could tell that she was struggling to hold back tears, and her voice was considerably more choked than before as she replied.

"Stop…just…don't say that, please don't say that, Puck."

He watched her take a deep breath, blinking frequently, seeming to be trying to pull herself together before she spoke again. Shoulders squared now, she went on with more control to her expression and tone, though she remained turned away from him.

"Look, there's no point in playing around like we don't know what's coming, okay? The guy said it himself. We know who they are. We know why they're here, and what they want to do. They didn't put me down here just to stand around looking at me. They're gonna fuck me, Puck," she stated, and her voice was very flat then, almost dead in tone, as though she had forced herself to stamp on any emotion she might have been experiencing as she said this statement. "Whatever they have to do, they're gonna. They'll fuck me, or they'll send someone else to, but one way or another, they're gonna make it happen. We can say or do whatever we want, but really, you tell me, Puck. How exactly are we gonna ward them off? What do you have to beat them with here, your hands? Didn't work out the last time, did it? The bed? You gonna pick up this whole bed and throw it at them? By the time you managed to get it an inch off the ground they'd already have you on the floor missing your balls."

She chuckled, but the noise was tired, with absolutely to humor to it. "People've been calling me a whore in one way or another for years. Guess it was inevitable it would become official."

She was still facing away from him, her face carefully turned to the wall, and Puck knew her eyes must be fixated on it with great determination, unwilling to let her focus sway for a second- for fear of what? That the careful mask she had managed to place over herself would crack, that if she were to falter for just a second, she would crumple entirely, unable to go on standing?

Her words were hitting him hard, almost causing physical discomfort, and he felt his body react as though she had pushed or hit him, stiffening all over. He could not, would not accept her words as truth. It was simply not possible that this would happen to Santana, that he could ever let it happen. He had promised her. He had promised her, and he had to do whatever it took to insure he kept that promise. Nothing else was in any way an option.

"Don't talk about that, 'Tana," he said gruffly, taking a few more steps towards her, now just behind her. He saw her eyes slide towards him without her turning her head, but she didn't move, nor did she ask him to step back. "Just…don't even think about it. Never gonna happen, so…don't."

He hesitated, gauging her response, and then slowly put his hands on her shoulders, only giving light pressure at first, testing her tolerance for it. When she didn't try to shrug him off or move away, and in fact gave a slow, slightly shaky sigh in response, leaning back slightly into his touch, Puck squeezed her lightly, aware with a sense of discomfort and protectiveness how small she felt to him, almost…breakable. It was a weird adjective to apply to Santana Lopez, but as he held onto her thin shoulders, feeling the bones beneath, it struck him that he more than likely could easily break them, if he wanted to. And if he could, then certainly any one of their captors and certainly a combination of them working together could do so.

He had to protect her. He just HAD to.

"You're not a whore, Santana," he said quietly, seriously. "You're not. You ain't never gonna be. And you're gonna be okay."

He felt her shoulders rise and fall with her sigh beneath his hands, saw her lick her lips, blinking several more times, and he lightly rubbed his thumbs in circles at the nape of her neck, feeling the knots of her tension beneath and attempting to ease them. After another minute or two she sighs again, slowly beginning to lean more fully back into him, until her back is making contact with his chest. They are silent for a few more moments, Puck's thumbs working her skin, and he does not try to overthink the situation, or her reaction. Although a glance at her watch tells him that it is still early evening, he can feel the tiredness in her posture against him, and he himself feels weary and old. And hungry…already, he feels hungry.

"Let's chill, okay?" he muttered, finally releasing her, and instead taking her by the shoulder to turn her to face him. Santana lets him willingly, looking up at him, and he slides an arm around her shoulders from the side, loosely pulling her against him in a casual half hug. "Don't think we actually slept too much and I don't know about you but I kinda do feel like shit. Let's just lay down and we'll figure out some shit later, right?"

She nodded, sighing, but as he started to let go of her, to walk towards the bed, she stopped him with a hand to his arm.

"We need to drink," she said seriously, and when Puck raised eyebrows at her, as if to ask exactly how she expected to do that, she rolled her eyes, a flash of the Santana he was used to returning to her expression as her lips curved into a half smirk. "Not alcohol, dumbass, you wish. Water. We don't know how long they're gonna keep us off food, so we have to be drinking a lot of water if you don't want to get way dehydrated and start really losing it. There aren't any cups in the bathroom so drink…like, at least ten handfuls."

Puck could understand the logic of that. Having played football and basketball, and spent a lot of time and energy learning choreography in Glee as well, he had seen it get pretty ugly when people dehydrated even with enough food available to them. Nodding his acknowledgement to her, he followed her into the bathroom and let her drink first, mentally counting each of her swallows to make sure she was following her own advice. He drank after her, feeling his stomach's grumbling subside only slightly, the water sliding down with some discomfort to fill its emptiness. Then the two of them returned to the main area of the basement, Puck gesturing towards the bed for Santana to lie down first.

It was a double bed, with enough room for the two of them, and as he lay down beside her, he was careful not to touch her more than was absolutely necessary, only his shoulder pressed into hers. At first Santana too lay still, and he listened to the sound of her breathing beside him, gradually slowing down, evening out, and it was almost enough to slow his own racing thoughts, to begin to lull himself to sleep. Almost.

But then Santana was shifting beside him, seeming to be moving closer, her hip and leg now pressed into his as well. Puck lay still, thinking it to be possibly and accident, and tried to give no reaction, though a slow warmth rolled through his body at the contact. But although he dismissed it at first, he then felt Santana's hand reach out and wrap around his forearm, then her entire arm snaking through his slowly as she pressed herself even closer against his side.

"Are you awake?" she whispered, her hair brushing his shoulder, her breath warm against his cheek. When he grunted an affirmative, half turning his head to face her, she remained close enough that he could hear her swallowing before she continued. "Puck? I'm…I'm sorry I hit you."

"'S'ok, 'Tana," he muttered back to her, and though his arm was trapped in her grasp, he lifted his other hand to somewhat awkwardly pat her opposite arm. "Over it. Go to sleep, okay?"

He was almost asleep when he heard her speak again, her voice so quiet now he wasn't sure at first he heard her, until she repeated herself.

"I'm…I'm sorry we're here."

He didn't have the energy then to try to respond back to her, to try to tell her something that was somewhere between the truth and a lie, something that would give her reassurance. Instead he just turned his head, just enough that he could kiss the top of hers, and within a few more moments he felt himself settle into sleep.

88  
He couldn't move.

They had hold of him, rough hands forcing him down, gripping him so hard that any movement he attempted twisted and bruised his skin. No matter how hard he fought against them, no matter how forcefully he bucked his body against their grasp, they were unmoved, unaffected in the slightest by his efforts. They held onto him without expression, and though they did not hit him he could nevertheless feel blood beginning to trickle out every part of him they touched, beginning to soak through his clothes and stain their hands. Puck tried to scream, tried to verbally assault them in every possible way, but his throat remained closed over and unable to force sound, let alone words. There was a sense of paralysis that he could not break, a helpless fury that left him fully out of control of everything around him.

But the worst of it was Santana. Because although he couldn't move, couldn't speak, could barely manage to fight, he also couldn't seem to shut his eyes or turn his head away. And there she was, only a few feet away from him, with those men…

He could see all too clearly what they had done to her, what they were doing to her…she was stripped entirely naked, her clothes torn and stained on the floor at her feet, discarded as though they were nothing more than dirtied paper towels. She too was bruised and bleeding, cuts marking her face, long scratch marks marring her breasts and stomach and upper thighs, as though they had deliberately tried to make their touching hurt. There was blood dripping down her left thigh, and Puck knew all too well what this indicated, what this meant that he had been unable to stop from occurring. They had her held against the wall, hands trapped over her head, their hands all over her, and although Santana was shaking all over, not even trying to escape them, she was nevertheless looking him directly in the eyes, pleading, terrified, her gaze vivid with her anguish. She was looking at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he could hear her calling out for him, almost begging him…

"Puck…Puck, please, help me, please…oh god help me, help me, please…"

And he couldn't do it. He couldn't do it, he couldn't get to her, he couldn't even call out her name. He couldn't touch her, couldn't fight back for her, couldn't even sing to her or tell her it would be okay. She was being hurt, she was being brutalized in the most terrible way he could imagine, and he couldn't do anything, he couldn't help her, he couldn't-

"Puck! Puck, wake up…Puck…"

Hands on him, shaking him, someone leaning close to his ear, shouting in his face. He had to get them off him, he had to get them away from him, had to help her, had to save her. He couldn't let them keep him down, couldn't let them hurt her anymore, and so Puck's arms flung out as he gave a hoarse yell, attempting with a forceful shove to throw what he saw as his captors off of him, bolting upright and attempting to lunge forward, to break free. What he succeeded at instead was making contact with a surprisingly soft-skinned person, with someone who had breasts instead of broad, unyielding chest muscles, sending them back hard enough that they cried out in what sounded like pain. What he succeeded at instead was almost toppling himself forward onto the floor as he nearly overbalanced himself.

As Puck opened bleary eyes, darting them side to side with near frantic efforts to make sense of his surroundings, he began to realize gradually that he was in fact not being held down, that there was only one person near him, and that was Santana herself. He was not being held down across the room, but rather was still half sitting up in bed, the sheets tangled down towards his feet, and the reason he could not seem to breathe was not because someone was holding him down or exerting pressure on his body, but rather because he was close to hyperventilating, his breath coming too hard and fast through his lungs for him to be able to even begin to think straight.

It was through his confusing tangle of thought, his lagging efforts to piece together what was happening, that Puck realized, with lingering bewilderment and then a rapid flood of relief, that Santana too was unbound and unharmed. She was in fact sitting up in bed beside him, her face flushed, one hand held to her chest as though it were in pain, looking at him with widened eyes and a deeply creased brow. Although her leg and hip was still touching his, she was leaning her torso as far from him as she could manage given the small space, and when the turned more fully towards her, she quickly threw up both hands, as though to ward off a potential attack.

"Whoa, whoa, hold up, calm down. It's okay. You're okay. I mean, not really but we're not like dying, anyway…not in the moment…so calm down, okay, no more swinging…"

As he looked her over a second, then a third time, really beginning to scrutinize her now, to compare the Santana that was in front of him with the Santana that he had been seeing only moments before, Puck could see clearly now that she was fully dressed, that there was no visible cuts or bruising on her that he could see, that there was no one holding her down or hurting her; there was no one there but himself and her. She was not crying, although there was definitely apprehension in her eyes, and when he saw her swallow, taking in a slow breath, he realized with sudden clarity that she was scared.

"Are you okay?" he blurted, the words almost breathless, and when he reached out a hand towards her, he noticed then that it was shaking slightly, that Santana flinched before he touched her, as though she half expected him to hit her.

"I'll live, but how about you cool the Muhammad Ali wannabe moves, okay?" she replied dryly, still rubbing a hand over her chest. "You suck at hitting but it sorta took me by surprise."

It wasn't until then that everything really clicked into place for Puck as to what had just occurred. It seemed obvious now, with Santana's comment- he had been dreaming, obviously moving around or making noise in his sleep, and when she went to awaken him, he had mistook her for one of the men in the dream, one of their captors, and lashed out at her. As this realization formed in his thoughts, Puck sat up all the way and turned towards her, frowning, as he reached to take hold of her upper arm.

"Oh…sorry, I thought you were…" he let this trail off, feeling no need or desire to explain. More than likely she could guess all on her own. "You okay? Did I…"

"Like I said, I'll live," Santana shrugs, giving her chest one final rub before lowering her hand. She attempted to twitch her lips into a smile, but it didn't meet her eyes, and her lips flatlined almost immediately after her efforts at curving them upward. With a slow exhalation she looks Puck up and down, her gaze lingering on his face. "You're sweaty. Gross."

But the words have no bite to them, and as Puck lifts his hand to his forehead, swiping it experimentally across, he realizes that she is right. He has no desire to talk about the dream, and it seems, judging by Santana's deliberate avoidance of asking, that she doesn't want to know. Instead, she swallows again, then instructs him in the same controlled tone, still keeping out of swinging range of him.

"Breathe. In and out, Puck, just breathe."

And though what she was saying was hardly detailed instruction, it helped him nonetheless. Puck tried to just think about Santana, there in front of him, to keep his eyes on her face, and within a minute or two he could feel his heartbeat slowing to a more normal pace, the occasional twitching of his muscles nearly stopped. During this time of watching Santana he had begun to really notice the strain in her tone, the glints of anxiety in her eyes, and the weariness stooping her posture, the dark, smudge-like circles beneath her eyes. It had become clear to him that she had not been sleeping, that she had perhaps no intentions of doing so, at least not now. Neither had turned off the basement's light, not wanting to do away with the one advantage they might possibly have in their favor, should their captors return, and dim as the light was, he could still clearly see, with her makeup now almost entirely faded away, how tired she really was.

"I'm alright, 'Tana. Go back to sleep."

He slowly eased himself back down onto the bed, but he could tell, even when he closed his eyes, that she was still watching him, still sitting up, looking down at him. Eyes still closed, Puck reached up and grasped for her arm, gently tugging.

"Come on, San, lay down. 'S ok."

He felt her slowly ease herself down beside him, her leg brushing his, her forehead coming to press against his shoulder, her slow breaths warm and not quite even against his skin. But although he kept his eyes closed, he was not asleep. And although he could not see her, he knew without having to look that she was lying with her eyes wide open, unable to even pretend to be drifting towards an unconscious state.


	6. Chapter 6

Puck had no way of estimating time, other than checking Santana's watch, but he was pretty sure, given their estimations from it, that nearly three days had passed since they had been kidnapped. It was hard to tell at any given time if it was night or day, seeing as they had no windows and none of the usual indicators to go by, but there had been enough repeating time windows from her watch that it was clear that many, many hours had gone by. They had had countless fights over Puck continually asking her what time it was, to the point that Santana had taken off her watch and thrown it at him. He would have put it on himself except that it was made for a much smaller wrist, and he couldn't have fastened it even at its largest available length. At some point she had, giving him the silent treatment in the moment, simply held out her hand for him to give it back to her, and he had allowed her to take it, attempting to stop himself from asking her the time as frequently. For maybe an hour or so.

Regardless of any specific parameters, it had definitely been an extensive period of time since Remington and the other men had made an appearance before them, and Puck was beginning to both wonder and dread whether they planned to return at all. Was it possible that they would go weeks, even months, without returning, without giving them any sort of food? Could they survive for that long, if that was their choice? Had he really managed to piss them off so much that they had decided it was simpler to let them starve than to try to break their will? Or was that exactly what they were doing- giving an example of what would happen if they didn't obey them, forcing them to be so hungry and so willing to do whatever it would take to eat that both he and Santana would gladly perform any task asked of them?

Puck didn't know, but whatever the case might be, it was clearly not good. Each hour that passed he seemed to feel the constant pangs of hunger more sharply, his mind seemed a little more foggy and unable to form new thought, and he had less energy to move or talk or even think. Although he had paced the room countless times, walking up and down the stairs, examining the door and its lock and trying repeatedly to break it down, it had been useless efforts. Santana hadn't even tried, or sneered too much about his tries. She had seemed resigned every time simply to watch him, doing little more than sighing or rolling her eyes, and maybe this was because she too was hoping that this time, miraculously, his efforts would pay off.

Almost as bad as the fear that seemed to add weight to every waking moment was the unending tedium of the situation at hand. They were stuck in a room where there was absolutely nothing for them to do beyond pace, sleep, take showers, and stare at the walls or each other. Of course, they could talk to each other, but most of the time, unless they were arguing, there seemed to be very little that either of them wanted to say aloud. And so arguing became the default and most usual method of communication between them- as well as almost their sole entertainment.

It wasn't that Puck was enjoying himself, bickering with Santana constantly, or that he was really genuinely angry at her, deep down. But what else was there to do? How much easier was it to let himself focus on anger and irritation instead of steadily growing worry and fear?

And he was worried about her. Every time he looked at her, it was almost a shock to notice new changes in her appearance, ones that deeply bothered him. While he, in spite of the lack of food, was still managing to improve, the wounds from his beating healing, his ribs less painful with the passing of time, Santana seemed to be deteriorating fast physically, and Puck was having a harder time ignoring it or shrugging it off even in the midst of their fights.

He wasn't sure how often he slept or napped, though he suspected it wasn't on typical hours of night time, and he never seemed to feel fully rested when he awoke. He had continued to have nightmares every time, but he had no proof, and suspected that this was because there was nothing to prove at all, that Santana had slept at all since the men came into the room and threatened them. Even if they had argued less than ten minutes before, every time he lay down to sleep, she always curled herself close to him, seeming to want the vague comfort that physical contact could provide, but every time he stirred or awakened, she was always lying with her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. He knew that she was drinking water, because every time he did, he made sure that she drank an equal amount, but she looked terrible nonetheless, and he was beginning to wonder if she could genuinely stand, as much as she had claimed to be accustomed to it, going so long without food when she was already so small.

For the majority of the day, Santana seemed, at least from Puck's observation, to have two modes of operation. Either she was moving around almost with a compulsive air, pacing and making small, meaningless actions with an air of agitated energy, picking fights and pointing out criticisms, or else she was motionless, mute, and miserable, drawing into herself and barely responding to him if he tried to address her or even nudge her arm or shoulder. He knew that with his healing bruises and cuts and his own lack of satisfactory sleep, he was not exactly his usually studly self to look at, but Santana's cheeks looked almost sunken, her skin tone dull, and her eyes were dark and hollow in appearance. She had always been thin, but Puck would have sworn that even though it could not have been more than three, possibly four at the very most, days that had passed, she had visibly lost weight, and this worried him too. If she wasn't sleeping, wasn't eating, and was losing weight, how was she going to be able to even attempt to defend herself adequately? What if he, in efforts to defend her, only ended up hurting her?

And the most uncomfortable question of all- what if this was all moot, because she would never need defended from anything, because they were simply going to slowly starve to death?

He didn't say anything to her about his worry, not wanting to voice it aloud, or seeing the point in mentioning it, until some time during what he guessed was probably the end of the third day without food. Santana had sunk into one of her quieter moods, and sat as far apart from him on the bed as she could manage, head down, hugging her knees to her chest. Looking at her, Puck was stricken by the dark circles under her eyes, the creases marking her brow, of how tired and sad she looked without any makeup or attitude to hide behind. Looking at her was upsetting, and he found himself getting angry, taking it out on her as an easier feeling to have than his fear for her. Raising his voice towards her slightly, he kept his tone hard, wanting to break through her silent withdrawal.

"Get up and get some water, Santana."

He had to repeat himself, a little louder and more aggressive in tone before she would lift her eyes towards him, finally acknowledging that he had spoken. Still, she didn't seem to be actually open to listening so much as simply looking towards him; nevertheless, he raised his voice a little more, holding her gaze.

"Get some water or I'm getting it for you and forcing it down your throat. Then go to sleep. Now."

When Santana ignored him, even going so far as to roll her eyes, Puck felt a renewed flicker of anger through his chest, and his face heated in spite of himself. Why did she have to be so stupid about this? Why couldn't she just do what he said? Why did she have to sit here and not say anything or else fly around the room bitching people out? Why did she have to force him to worry or want to half kill her, why couldn't she just be a normal person?

Getting to his feet suddenly and with an irritability that bordered on aggressive posture, Puck stalked into the bathroom, filled the cap of a mouth wash bottle with water, and took it to her, holding it out to her. He was even more annoyed that the cap was barely more than a swallow, and in order for her to drink a decent amount, if she would not get up and go to the sink herself, he would have to carry it back and forth, as though he were some kind of ridiculous servant to her. Thinking about his only increased his anger towards her. She had to be doing this on purpose. She was laughing at him on the inside, smirking as only Santana Lopez could, to make him go back and forth with the stupid tiny cap because she was too stupid to get up herself. She was enjoying this, he was suddenly sure, and when he thrust the cap at her, he didn't care that he spilled part of it on her arm before she could take it and with what he saw as a show of great disinterest, drank, then rested her chin back on her knees, continuing to ignore him.

Looking at her, Puck's anger boiled to the front. This had to be some kind of game, it had to be some kind of effort on her part to make him wait on her, to make him try to feel sorry for her. It had to be, because the alternative, that she was genuine, was just too much to want to consider as a possibility, and so he hardened his tone, leaning close to her as he addressed her again.

"You look like shit, Santana. Knock it off and get some friggin' sleep, this is getting old."

As he had expected, Santana's head lifted then, and she met his eyes, finally looking him straight on in the face. For the first time in the conversation he saw the beginning sparks of anger come into her expression, tensing through her shoulders and up her arms, and when she replied to him her tone held an edge for the first time.

"Oh, so sorry for not looking like a runway model now, given the circumstances. Excuse me for not having the best of hair, makeup, and wardrobe products available and I'll just have to make do with my own natural hotness. Damn me for falling below Noah Puckerman's expectations of appearance given the fact that I have one outfit and a bar of soap to my name. Fuck me and my inferior efforts- oh, wait, no, wouldn't want that, who would want to fuck me since I look so hideous? Oh, wait, that's right, the four people that threw us down here and threatened to do exactly that. Then again maybe they changed their minds once they got word that Noah Puckerman no longer approves, it's not like I've seen them down here since. What, you get out your mental mojo and let them know they should no longer bother?"

"Damn straight you don't look like a runway model- you're skinnier," Puck retorted, his own voice rising slightly to match with her tone. He remained somewhat in her personal space as he spoke to her, not backing off from her even as she maintained a defensive posture in response to him. "Don't be a bitch over this, Santana. Go to sleep. Obviously you need it."

"Obviously? What the fuck is that supposed to mean, why is it so OBVIOUS by Noah Puckerman's opinion that I need to sleep?" Santana spat back, now uncurling her arms from around her legs and sitting upright, eyebrows shooting up in reaction to his statement. Whereas she had barely paid attention to him before, she was now taking his bait, even fighting back, and this was what Puck wanted. Not for her sake, to force her to act and react- he wasn't feeling that magnanimous or generous towards her in the moment, regardless of what concern he did have for her. No, he wanted to force her to react so he was no longer feeling as though he were talking to a statue, force her to fight back so he could have something to react to, someone to feel some kind of way towards right in front of him instead of in a distant abstract.

"It's obvious because like I said, you look like shit and you're acting like a bitch," Puck responded easily enough, shrugging one shoulder. "Go to sleep, Santana. Like I said, you need it."

"Yeah? Well, you're no fucking Mr. America yourself, look at you! Black and blue and green and purple, you look like a preschooler's efforts at making a rotten Mr. Potato Head painting," Santana shot back. She was sitting up straight now, her hands gripping the edge of the bed so hard that her arms were ramrod straight beside her, the her shoulders hitched up higher in positioning than they normally were, almost touching her ears. "And you're always a dick and a dumbass so nothing new there. Just like I'm always a bitch. You want to insult, you gotta reach for higher stars than that. I know you can do it, you've got the oversized gorilla arms to prove it."

"Go to sleep, Santana," Puck snapped, no longer in the mood to verbally spar with her. Something about her expression then, about the tone of her words, had hit harder than he would have expected, and although he didn't know why, exactly, she had gotten to him, didn't want to admit it even to himself, she had, and he started to back off from her, jaw clinched as he shook his head. "Whatever, go to sleep."

"Yeah, and I take orders from you now? In YOUR fucking dreams," Santana crossed her arms over her chest, giving a dry laugh that had absolutely no humor to it. "Even if I wanted to, which I don't, then how the hell would you suggest I do that?"

"For someone calling other people a dumbass, you ain't too bright yourself," Puck retorted, half turning back towards her at this comment to roll his eyes back at her. "Usually what you do is lay down and shut your eyes. If you need help I could sit on you and put my hand over your face, kinda ease you into learning how-"

"Shut the fuck up, Puckerman!" she nearly shrieked then, and Puck was genuinely taken aback to see the intensity of the emotions that suddenly flickered over her features, taking over her entire expression. Anger, hurt, apprehension, and fear, what looked to him like genuine alarm, all warring to take over her eyes, and her fingers dug into the skin of her thin arms, pressing in hard as her lips squeezed into a thin white line. "You can't make me, you can't fucking make me do anything! You can't touch me, you don't get to touch me!"

"Santana, what the hell? What is your problem-" Puck started, genuinely thrown, and when he took a step towards her and Santana threw up both hands with a genuine shriek in reaction to it, both an angry warning and real apprehension in its tone, he stopped short, staring at her.

And then it dawned on him. Although he had not been serious, when he threatened to sit on her and put his hand over her face in order to force her to sleep, given the circumstances, it wasn't all that surprising that even a bluffed threat, even from him, would upset her. Because wasn't that almost exactly what Remington had done, when he threw her down on the bed and forced her to submit beneath him to his touch? Hadn't he threatened to do even worse?

"Hey, I wasn't serious, Santana," Puck started, deliberately subduing his tone, relaxing his hands at his sides. "I'm not gonna touch you if you don't want it, alright? I just wanted…I just think you need to go to sleep, okay? You're gonna get sick. That's all. You're gonna be sick and then what?"

"I CAN'T FUCKING GO TO SLEEP, PUCKERMAN!" Santana nearly screamed, and when Puck blinked, flinching, and took a step back, she didn't seem to register his retreat. She kept yelling, her voice and expression remaining every bit as agitated as she continued, her fist now repeatedly hitting the mattress for emphasis as she spoke.

"I can't sleep! How the hell can I sleep, when I know what could happen, how can I sleep when I know what might be coming?! How am I going to sleep when probably the exact second I do, those fucking sex Goliaths are gonna come tearing down here and rip me out of bed and throw me on the ground and…and I won't know it's coming, I won't be able to see it or hear it or do ANYTHING, I'll just wake up and there I am and there's nothing, NOTHING I could do! I have to see it coming, I have to KNOW, I need to KNOW what's going to happen, I need to know! If they're going to hurt me I have to know, if they're going to…if they're going to…"

She couldn't finish her sentence. Her voice was cracking, shaking so badly that her words had become nearly incoherent, and as her features dissolved with her sudden tears, Santana's head dropped towards her chest, and she began to sob aloud, unable to speak. She didn't bother to raise a hand to her face or even to try to say anything further. She didn't reach out to Puck or tell him to go away. She just wept, her crying sharp and frightened and hopeless in tone, and it struck Puck to his heart.

Without any thought at all he came forward towards her, reached out with both arms, and knelt in front of her, taking her by the shoulders and drawing her in close against his chest. Wrapping both arms around her, Puck hugged her tightly, feeling her tears begin to seep through his shirt, her face hot and working against his chest, and the shame, guilt, and protective concern he felt for her then was like a warm current spreading through his veins, settling deep within his chest and pressing against his heart.

"Hey, hey, shh," he murmured towards her ear, bending his head down towards hers, hoping she was listening through her tears. "I've got you, San. San…I've got you, I've got your back. You're okay, okay? You're okay…I've got you, you're okay."

He held her, listening to her sob as though she heard nothing of what he was saying, as though there was nothing that he or anyone else could say or do to make her stop. He held her, feeling her arms gradually creep up to wrap around him in return, her fingers clutching a fistful of his shirt, and he let her cry, even as it made him feel sad, helpless, and ashamed all at once to feel her pain, seeping into his own skin. There was nothing more he could do, not right now, and so he stayed still and mostly silent, holding her and letting her cry.

When he could feel her starting to relax slightly, and it seemed as though the crying was beginning to wear off, Puck gave her a last light squeeze, then slowly, somewhat painfully got to his feet, releasing her from his hold. Easing Santana down onto the bed, brushing her hair back from her face, he lay down beside her, facing her, so his back was turned to the rest of the room, providing a barrier in between her and anything that might come towards them. Although Santana was not meeting his eyes, still in the process of regaining control of tears, Puck looked towards her eyes nonetheless as he spoke to her.

"You need to sleep, 'Tana. I've got you. It's okay. Nothing's gonna happen…it's okay."

And even though he knew mentally there was no way he could guarantee this promise, even though he knew that seconds after he spoke, those men could choose to burst through the door, it somehow felt to him as he said it that he was sincere, and he was correct. That at least for today, she would be okay, he would keep her safe. No matter what it took.

When she didn't react, Puck moved for her. Wrapping his arms around her again, he pulled her head to his chest and held her, rubbing one hand slowly over her back. Gradually he felt her relax into him, and when he told her softly again to go to sleep, he could hear her breath beginning to slow. It took him a good five minutes to realize that he had, at some time in all of this, begun to hum under his breath, another few seconds to realize that the song he was humming was "Imagine." But even after he realized that he was humming, even after he could tell that Santana had fallen asleep, Puck continued through another two songs.

At some point after helping Santana finally go to sleep, Puck himself must have dozed off, though he had been unaware of even growing sleepy. For a good stretch of time, even after his unconscious humming to himself and to Santana had ceased, he remained still, attempting to empty his mind of all thought as he absently stroked his hand over the bony ridge of Santana's spine. Gradually he had felt her body loosen unconsciously against his as she had settled into deeper sleep, and he had hooked his chin over the top of her head, pulling her in even more closely against himself. Though he would never have been able to admit it to Santana, and doubted she would have said anything remotely similar to him either, he couldn't deny to himself that it felt nice, even somewhat reassuring, to have her so close to him, to know that she was able to relax and trust him enough in that moment to finally let herself sleep. As much as he personally felt he had failed her so far, this meant a lot to him, and he had every intention of staying awake to continue to look out for her.

But at some point this intention must have faltered, or maybe he was simply too relaxed, the feel of Santana's warm, slight weight against him too pleasant to avoid giving in to his near constant tiredness, and Puck had drifted off. When he awakened, unsure of how much time had passed, Santana was still deeply asleep, even snoring softly, and part of her leg had slipped in between his in a way that made Puck swallow, uncomfortable in an all too pleasant way. He tried to stay still, not wanting to wake her, as his eyes restlessly roamed around the basement, taking in for the umpteenth time every unchanged and unexciting aspect of its interior.

Only something had changed. At the top of the stairs, what looked like two bottles had been placed on the very top stair, side by side, just in front of the door. When Puck squinted, focusing, it looked to him like two Gatorade bottles had been placed up there.

There was only one possible explanation. While they had slept, Remington or his men had put them there for him and Santana and left again without managing to wake either of them up. But why? Why would they come in and leave out without hurting them, only leaving drinks, when they already had plenty of water?

Puck tried to think through all the possibilities- maybe they were poisoned. Maybe they weren't starving fast enough to please them, so they were getting it over with fast. But then why wouldn't they just kill them and be done with it? Maybe they were trying to get those vitamins or chemicals that coaches were always talking about back in their bodies again, after days without any nutrition- electricity or whatever Coach Beiste had called it. Maybe they would give them more drinks and some food too eventually, when they felt like it. Whatever the case was, Puck didn't want to think too much about it, because just the thought of the sweet liquid on his tongue, slipping down his throat, was already making him salivate. He wanted that Gatorade and he wanted it now.

He hesitated before going to wake Santana, but then decided that getting her to drink was more important now than letting her catch up on sleep. She could go back to sleep after she was finished, even if he had to help her get to that point again, but they both needed the calories and whatever nutrition Gatorade could give them.

"San," he murmured in her ear, moving her hair aside and gently tapping her cheek with his fingers. "San, wake up. San."

She was slow to react, mumbling and burrowing her face further into his chest, and when she shifted, her leg moving up higher in between his legs, Puck inhaled sharply, his entire body heating. He swallowed, then gave her a more insistent nudging, raising his voice a little.

"Santana. You need to get up, come on."

"Don't wanna. Leave me 'lone," she muttered, her words slurred, but Puck detached her from him then, sitting up and hauling her to a sitting position too.

She groaned, squinting and then shutting her eyes again, trying to lay back down, and this time Puck let her, rolling his eyes to himself as he stood from the bed and walked up the stairs to retrieve the drinks alone. He stopped to test the door's lock again, and finding it just as firmly shut as always, he took the drinks and then opened both, sniffing their contents. He could smell or see nothing strange about them, so shrugging to himself, he carried them back down the stairs. One of the flavors was Raspberry Lemonade, he noticed, which was pink- definitely that was the one he was handing to Santana, because thirsty or not, the Puckasaurus did not drink pink drinks if there was any other available option. Green Gatorade was his all the way, and she wasn't getting a choice about it.

Santana had curled back up on the bed, eyes closed, when Puck returned to her, and he uncapped the pink Gatorade, holding it under her nose and watching her sniff it involuntarily, her eyes automatically beginning to slit open. He smirked to himself; it was almost like those fancy salt things that people shoved under old lady's noses in those lame black and white movies after they fainted.

"They left Gatorade, San," he informed her, pulling it back from her nose and shaking it as though to entice her. "Drink it all and then you can go back to sleep. You get the girly pink one though."

He helped her sit up, a supporting hand on her back, and watched her drink sleepily but greedily, no questions asked, except for one, when she was about halfway finished with her bottle.

"Did you see them…did they say anything?"

"Didn't see them," Puck replied, shaking his head, and though he didn't explain how this was possible, she didn't seem curious enough to continue to question him. Santana finished her bottle, and then nearly immediately lay back down, closing her eyes.

Puck thought nothing of it, not at the time. She had been sleep deprived, badly, and he had awakened her to drink; she had been sleepy before drinking and doubtless needed to sleep more. He simply shifted himself over on the bed so she'd have more room to lie down, pausing to brush her hair back from her face and to remove the Gatorade bottle from the bed, before starting to drink his own. Never in his life had any drink tasted as good to him as the lukewarm Gatorade in his hand tasted then. He could almost feel the fluid filling his stomach, the sugar flooding through his veins, and he drank so fast he almost choked. It wasn't enough to satisfy him by far, but it was considerably better than nothing.

Puck would have thought he would be filled with renewed energy after drinking, but in fact it was exactly the opposite. Almost immediately after the last possible drop had been swallowed, he felt a heaviness come over his body, a strange fogginess clouding his thoughts until he could hardly form a thought, let alone an action, and he seemed nearly incapable of deciding upon any movements or actions at all. Without any understanding or intent, he found himself slowly slumping down beside and partly over Santana on the bed, his eyes drooping closed, and then he too was dead to the world.

The first thing that Puck noticed, when he first began to awaken again, was that there was something against his arms, chest, and legs, something wrapped around him tight enough to almost be painful, something holding him down. He thought at first, still half unconscious, that it was Santana, winding herself around his body in her sleep, but this soon became clear that it was not the case. Whatever was holding him was not warm or soft to the touch, but rather hard and unyielding, almost painful, and when he attempted to move himself, it held him immobile, resisting his efforts. He could not hear her breathing, and in fact, he soon realized, he himself was not lying down.

It was this combination of facts that caused him near alarm as well as confusion, and Puck opened his eyes fully, taking in the facts of his environment with renewed disbelief.

It was clear from the first second, even as disoriented as he was, his thoughts still fuzzy and disjointed in his head, that he was no longer in the basement. He was instead sitting up in a chair at a table, his arms, torso, and legs bound by cable cords, in what looked to be some sort of dining room. There was a plate, a glass, a two liter of Coke, and a large pepperoni pizza in front of him, which automatically made his mouth water to see and smell. It seemed years to Puck since he had eaten anything, let alone a steaming hot pizza, glistening with the good kind of grease, and for a few seconds this was enough to distract him.

But when he lifted his eyes off the pizza and took in the smirking face of Remington across the table from him, and then realized, after a quick scan around the room, that Santana was nowhere within his sight, all other observations ceased to matter. Horror and near panic causing his heart to begin pounding over time in his chest, his eyes continuing to dart, as though hoping he had simply overlooked her standing in the corner or lying on the floor somewhere, Puck began to buck and strain against the cords to no avail, barely feeling them begin to chafe and cut at his skin as he began to yell as forcefully as he could manage, feeling his neck tendons began to strain, his face growing red with his efforts.

"Where the fuck is Santana, what the fuck are you doing to her?! Bring her to me, right now, right fucking now, BRING HER TO ME!"

They were hurting her, almost certainly. They could be beating her, or worse…they could be touching her any way they wanted, and she wouldn't be able to stop them, she wouldn't be able to hold them back. They could do anything at all and Puck would never know it, could only guess exactly how bad it would be. She would be so scared, if she was awake already. She would be worried about him and she would be terrified, she would be in pain, and he wouldn't even be there for her to look at and know she wasn't alone. He had promised to protect her. He had promised to be there for her, he had promised to keep her safe, to keep their hands off her, and he hadn't done it. He had fallen asleep, he didn't watch over her like he had sworn to do, and somehow they had gotten him, and maybe her too. He had failed her, and for this Puck felt such a strong surge of self-hatred and defeat that he wanted nothing more than to commit an act of physical violence, against his own self almost as much as he wanted to against Remington and the other men. He settled for the only thing he could do, yelling and struggling against his restraints, even as they only rubbed raw his skin and held him just as firmly as before.

"Well isn't this touching!" Remington chuckled, his eyes alit with amusement, lips quirked into a smirking smile as he regarded Puck's efforts. He steepled his fingers together on top of the table, rolling his eyes at the younger man as he continued to watch him, leaning forward slightly in his seat. He seemed to regard him as a source of entertainment, and he continued to watch him with seemingly genuine interest, even as he spoke. "How very predictable as well. I figured that a big tough guy like you would have an irrational aversion to drinking anything that was pink in color, so I made sure to put the larger dose of tranquilizers in the green-hued bottle. You should be very glad that you chose to stick within predictable stereotypes, boy, because had you broke the mold and given your girl the green bottle, she would have had the larger dose of tranquilizers, enough to most likely put her in a coma or even kill her given her size. How unfortunate that would have been, for there's no use to a whore who's dead."

Then his smirk deepened as he appeared to reconsider this statement. "At least not in our particular market. But I suppose if a mistake was made, we could still find a way to get the maximum use out of her."

Hearing what he was saying, Puck realized then that his mistake had been even greater than he had first thought. He had not only failed to protect Santana, he had also given her with his own hands the drink that would render her completely helpless to the men- and made sure to take it himself as well.

With a new burst of energy and adrenaline, he twisted and strained against his restraints, yelling out to Remington with no lessened forcefulness. "Let me fucking go, what the fuck is the matter with you?! Let me go! Bring me Santana, right now, you sick bastard, you leave her the fuck alone and let me go!"

"You may want to reconsider both your tone and your threats, Noah," Remington replied calmly, seemingly unruffled, but Puck could tell just looking at him how much he was enjoying himself. "Don't get me wrong, I happen to love your ferocious spirit, but others may not be quite so tolerant. Especially if you happen to display that attitude when Santana is near…why, they may find it quite enjoyable to convenient to take out on her any anger you've managed to provoke in them. Understand?"

Puck did understand, all too well. In fact, it sounded like a threat that may in fact already be taking place, the way Remington was looking at him, the way he had spoken…if he was already causing Santana to be hurt because of something he had said or done, then no matter how hard it was, no matter how badly he wanted to call this man every name he could come up with and hurt him in every way he could even think of causing pain, he couldn't do it. And it was with this thought burned into his brain that Puck forced himself to stop fighting, to shut his mouth from the run of curses and insults that had been streaming out from it. Breathing heavily, head hanging low, but eyes raised up to watch Remington's every move, he managed to control himself enough to ground out only one question.

"What did you do to her…where is she."

"For the moment, right back where you left her. No need to fear, Noah, your Santana is safe and sound and currently untouched…currently," Remington added for emphasis, eyes on Puck's face as he spoke. "And she will remain that way for the moment, if you can sit up like a man and discuss business with me, because it's you I'm interested in seeing and speaking with in the moment. So here are your choices, boy. You can sit up and eat your dinner here without any further threats or aggressive gestures, and we can talk things out and your girl will be left alone for at minimum the length of time that we speak. Or you can choose to be foolish, and you will then be forced to watch her dragged in here by her hair, where I will then proceed to teach a lesson to the both of you."

He paused, making sure that Puck is listening to every word he says, before he continues deliberately, each word very precisely formed.

"I will keep you tied up exactly as you are now, and I will rape her in front of you and force you to watch every moment of it. And then I will bring in all your good friends, Vince, Jeremiah, Paul, and any friends of theirs who are also interested in getting a piece of her, and you will watch them as well. Your girl will be lucky if she can walk or sit up before the day is through, and you can then explain to her that the reason for her treatment is due to your inability to follow simple instruction. Do you understand the deal as I have explained it to you, Noah, or do we need a demonstration to really help you get it?"

Puck's mouth opened automatically, and for a quarter of a second, before he managed to stop himself, he had every intention of telling Remington exactly where he could get off at and exactly what he wanted to do to him, all of it far from peaceful in description or execution. But the man's words stopped him cold, before he had formed even a syllable of defiance. Because he believed him….he could see that he was more than serious. If he fought him any further, if he so much as threatened to, Santana would be punished in the worst possible way. He knew that he was weaker than usual now, with his lack of nutrition, he knew that he was more than likely not to win, even against this single man. So with great effort and reluctance, he forced back all the rest of the words he wanted so badly to come out with, gritting his teeth and lowering his head as he struggled to calm down, clinching and unclinching his fists at his tethered sides. It was only with great difficulty that he managed to speak with any degree of civility to his tone.

"It's a fucking deal. But you need to make one too. I do whatever the hell you want and you bring her to me. You show me you're telling the fucking truth and that she's really okay."

"Well aren't you the hard bargainer!" Remington chuckled, seeming genuinely amused by Puck's request. "Rest assured, boy, as I already have told you, your girl is alive and well and sleeping exactly where you left her. But as I have explained to you already, whether or not she remains in this state is determined by you and you alone. I will allow you to be untied so you can eat now…but if you try anything, just remember. I am not one to lie, Noah, and what I have promised will be done to her will immediately be brought into action."

He nodded then towards what Puck thought was himself, but he then heard footsteps behind him and realized that at some point, the three men whom had been present in their capture before had come into the room behind him. They came forward, beginning to untie him, and it was only with great self-restraint and his own nails digging into his palms as hard as he could manage that Puck was able to keep himself from lashing out at them the moment they came near.

But he knew he couldn't do it…for Santana. For Santana, he would have to control himself, for Santana, he would have to listen to whatever this sick, crazy bastard had to say. For Santana, Puck had to keep his cool, no matter how much it killed him in the mean time.


	7. Chapter 7

Once he had been untied, Puck flexed his fingers, the muscles of his biceps twitching as he continued to fight against his urges to leap to his feet and start fighting any and all the men, whoever he could manage to get his hands on. His eyes shifted continually between them, not wanting to miss a movement from any of them, and when the three had retreated back towards the doorway, leaving Remington alone in front of him, he nevertheless remained very much aware of their presence behind him. He hated knowing that they were at his back, that he couldn't see what they were doing or might be planning to do, and when Remington gestured towards the pizza in front of him, as though indicating that he wanted him to eat, Puck didn't move to take a slice, even as his stomach growled in response.

He had no way of knowing whether the food was safe to eat. Clearly the Gatorade hadn't been, what would stop them from putting something in or on the pizza too?

"Now then, I know you're nearly starving, boy, eat up," Remington nodded his head again towards the pizza, that same infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Rest assured, there is nothing beyond the usual ingredients on it. Eat, regain some of that admittedly inferior strength back, and we will talk."

Puck didn't trust himself to respond to him, and he certainly had no intentions of eating. He kept his lips pressed tightly together, trying hard to ignore the increasingly desperate grumblings of his stomach in response, and crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to help himself to refocus his attention. Pressing his arms hard into his chest, he breathed out, trying to avoid smelling the pizza, even as Remington leaned towards him, his voice dropping, more intense now in tone.

"Eat, Puck, or Santana will not be given the opportunity to eat as well. Do you really think that she can last as long as you can without eating, when you can fit your whole hand around her upper arm? Eat."

It was possible, of course, that the man was just playing with him, that he still intended to poison or drug him. But as much as Puck wanted to continue to refuse the food, for the sake of being defiant if nothing else, this statement of his could not allow him to do so. The man was right, Puck was worried for Santana's sake. She did need to eat, and if this bastard was prepared to deny her food over his stubbornness…and anyway, Puck reasoned to himself, it wasn't likely after all that there was anything in the food. The man wanted something from him, so what good would it serve him to kill him, and to go through so much effort to do it in this way?

He reached reluctantly for a slice of pizza, angry at himself when his shaking hand and watering mouth betrayed how badly he really wanted it. Nevertheless as he took his first bite, he tried not to show how good the food tasted to him after days without nothing, tried not to simply cram it into his mouth as fast as he could chew and swallow. He didn't want to give Remington that satisfaction, so he tried to eat in a much slower fashion than usual, even as his hand continued to shake with his eagerness.

He tried not to look up at Remington, knowing that the man was watching him with continued amusement. If he looked at him too often now, he would find it much harder to control himself from wasting a perfectly good piece of pizza throwing it in his face, or even more likely, throwing a fist in his face. He tried instead to focus on his pizza only as Remington continued to speak.

"Good boy. I can see that you can be amenable and reasonable when you choose to be, which indicates that you must be smarter than you lead some to believe. Go on and eat as much as you like, if you finish off this then more can be provided for Santana, there is no need to worry."

Puck tried to ignore him, but every bite he took, even if he tried to look at the table top or the pizza alone, he could feel the men behind him, their eyes on him, Remington's smile burning through his skin. Back teeth grinding hard, he continued to say nothing, even as Remington went on.

"Let's lay down all our cards now, shall we? I'll be very honest with you when I tell you that I had no intention whatsoever of reeling you in here with our girl Miss Lopez," he started, and Puck stiffened, having to fight not to take a swipe at him then for even referring casually to Santana as "his" as well as Puck's. "That happened to be a lucky break, but I'm not a foolish man, and I intend to make the very most of it. And I can always use another man with muscle at my right hand…so here is what is expected of you."

It was an order, rather than a request; even before any details were given, Puck could tell that much. Remington could play jovial or amused all he wanted, but what he was asking of Puck now was not a request but a demand, and there would doubtless be consequences if he refused him. For the moment Puck remained quiet, eating, still refusing to look up at him, as he let Remington explain.

"I've checked you out, of course, and I couldn't have found a more perfect fit for the sort of man I look for if I had tried. It really was a very lucky day for me indeed, that you just happened to be out fucking around with our girl that night," Remington chuckled, and Puck nearly boiled over then and there. For this man to imply that he was "fucking around" with Santana that night, the same night they had returned back from Finn's memorial service, the same night that they had screamed and hurt each other to the point of tantrums and tears, was so inaccurate and infuriating that he almost forgot Santana entirely, didn't even care in the moment that any action of his would also affect her. But then Remington was still talking, overriding his intentions as his new words hit him hard.

"You have a record, you have muscle, you have no sense of commitment to anyone or anything and no sense of direction in your life. No decent job, no chance of anyone or anything really missing you when you're gone, and so much pent up rage, just ready to be vented towards whatever is there to take it on. Well congratulations, Noah, you've found your calling right here in my humble services," Remington inclined his head towards him, and as Puck's eyes finally shot up to meet his, stunned, he continued, "You will train with my men initially and will not be left unsupervised, except, of course, when you sleep, but no that you will always be under scrutiny and at any given time, we can choose to walk in on you, so be a good boy and stay on your toes."

"What the fuck are you saying?" Puck blurted, unable to keep his distaste and protest to himself anymore at this description. Putting down the crust of the second slice of pizza he had been close to finishing off, he shook his head adamantly, putting up both hands as if to ward off even the suggestion Remington was throwing at him. "No way. No way in hell. You wanting me to rape and kidnap girls, you're out of your fucking mind. I might be a dick but I'm not a sick, pathetic bastard, I don't NEED to do that shit to sleep with chicks!"

"You may want to watch your words, Noah, I don't think others are too happy to hear you be so dismissive," Remington's eyes shifted towards the men behind Puck, who Puck didn't bother to look back to assess. He didn't care what they were doing or what they thought, he was speaking the truth and if they couldn't take it, they could all go fuck themselves as well as whatever chicks they were forcing themselves on every day. His face was burning with his fury at even the suggestion as he opened his mouth to keep telling them exactly what he thought about this proposal, but Remington held up a hand, stopping him.

"You would not have to have sex with anyone, Noah, though you certainly could choose to do so. Your role would be to escort our girls, to book and transport them to appointments, to buy and sell necessary supplies, and to be one of the muscle needed to keep them in line. You will be closely monitored initially, but should you prove yourself worthy of it, you will be given more responsibility over time. Think about it, Noah…does this really sound like such a terrible job, a job beyond your shaky level of moral ground for you to do? You cannot deny that you have been wanting others to respect you through fear for all of your life, and this would be the perfect opportunity to have exactly what you want. Don't even attempt to deny it to yourself. So…what do you say?"

"I say you're trying to make me out to be like you, and you're never gonna," Puck spat back at him, not even pretending that he had taken a second to think over the man's "offer." Squeezing his own upper arms hard, but barely feeling the pressure that his own fingers exerted, he didn't even attempt to lessen the glare that he was casting Remington's way, jutting out his jaw just to show him exactly how he felt about his not very subtle insinuation. "I say you obviously need to clean your own jizz outta your ears, 'cause you obviously didn't hear me good the first time I said no way in hell. And I say fuck you too."

"You better watch yourself, boy," Remington warned, his tone taking on a sharper edge, though he didn't raise his voice. His eyes barely blinked, and he leaned forward towards Puck more and more as he continued to speak to him. Although the table was in between them, Puck nevertheless felt that he was invading more and more of his space, crossing over the boundaries that he wanted between them in a nearly threatening manner. He was not close enough to touch him, and yet Puck was aware that with one gesture the three men behind him would be on him, able to carry out anything that Remington might command.

It might have been smarter to watch his words, to rethink what he said to the man. But Puck didn't care in the moment. All his life he had heard people talking about him, assuming about him, judging him, thinking him to be nothing more than a callous asshole who didn't give a shit about women or anyone but himself and what he wanted, and sometimes he felt like they were right. But for this man, if he could even be called that, to stand there and tell him that he was like him, to offer him a job like this…it was more of an insult than he could stand, and Puck could barely keep himself from forgetting himself entirely and jumping up to slug him in the face.

He was NOT like Remington. He was not, and he never would be, and he would not take that fucking job.

That was what he thought. But Remington wasn't finished speaking, and when he went on, forcing Puck to listen in spite of himself, he soon understood exactly why his defiance was not possible.

"You better think carefully here before you do or say anything further, boy. I know that's probably a foreign concept for you, careful thought instead of impulsive, self-gratifying action…but I do assure you that it would best benefit you to listen."

It was infuriating, how properly this guy spoke, throwing out big words like he was some kind of professor when he was actually a rapist pimp or something like that. The way he was condescending to Puck, acting like he thought he was stupid, like he had anything over him or was better than him in any way, would have been enough all on its own for Puck to want to beat on him all over again even if it wasn't for everything else. But Puck made himself stay still, taking in a shallow breath and trying to calm himself, as the man explained himself further, eyes still locked on Puck's.

"You don't know me, Noah Puckerman, but I have made it my business to know you, and to know you well. Just as I know our exquisite young Miss Lopez. But we're not discussing her as of now…we're discussing you. I know you, boy. I know about your pathetic high school persona, your wannabe badass routine of intimidating the smaller boys, beating them up, putting them in Dumpsters, putting yourselves above them, strutting down the hallways thinking yourself a gift to females and everyone who crossed your path- using violence to get the results you wanted, just as you would be doing in this job. I know you got girls drunk in order to make them agree more easily to sleep with you- which could be argued to be rape, just as you so adamantly insisted that you are so very opposed to. You are no better than you claim you are, Noah. You are me…you're just too hypocritical and afraid to admit it."

He paused, looking at Puck hard, giving this time to sink in, before continuing. "You barely passed high school. You already had a stint in juvie and doubtless you would have ended up in jail before long. You were headed for the Air Force, but it would have been no time at all before you fucked something up enough to quit or get kicked out. Your life is nothing, Noah, and you were going nowhere. Taking this job will be a step up and simply speed you up to where you would have ended up regardless, because this IS you."

"It's not," Puck shook his head, but his jaw was working, his response quieter, less fully certain than he wanted it to be. "It's not. I'm not anything fucking like you at all, and I never will be. You can fuck your mind games and everything else because I'm not fucking doing this."

But even as he said it he wondered…because every fact that Remington laid out was correct. He didn't know how the man had found it out, what his high school experience and attitude had been like, and he didn't like the possibilities of it…but that still didn't mean that he was right in what he was saying. Or did it? Puck had done some pretty shitty things in his life…but was he really no different, deep down, than Remington, even if he felt that he was? Could all of this really be compared to the sickness that this man represented?

Puck had never really fully liked himself or been satisfied with himself as a person, never really, truly believed in his heart that he was going to be someone, that he was a good person or a person with talent or as much worth as most of the others in his life. How could he, when it seemed that nothing he did was ever the right thing, and nothing he wanted or accomplished ever was enough? How could he when even his own efforts to be good and right almost always ended up in failure?

But as bad as he thought and knew himself to be at times…could he really be anything like this man?

"I'm not like you," he repeated, with more firmness this time, holding up his head and looking Remington in the eye. "I won't do it." And this time, he was almost entirely sure of his words.

But Remington wasn't one to take no easily. And his next words, carefully measured in tone and tempo, made it clear that he was far from finished in his persuasions.

"You are not the only person who has caught my attentions in your life, Noah," he said plainly, pointedly. "I know about your lonely, single mother, ever devoted to a dying faith. I'm sure she would be flattered to think that a man would still want her, let alone be willing to pay for her services. And that little sister of yours, such a pretty little thing…what's her name again, Sarah?"

"How the fuck do you know about them?! Don't you talk about them, don't you fucking dare, if you lay one fucking finger-" Puck reacted immediately, starting to get to his feet, but when he heard the three men behind him begin to step forward, and Remington spoke over him, he had to force himself to stay still, even as he trembled with fury.

"I would be very, very careful with myself now, Noah…as you'll recall, your Santana is still enjoying time to herself at the moment, but if you indicate that you feel she needs company, we will be more than happy to accommodate your request."

He paused, making sure that Puck understood his implication, and then smiled when Puck swallowed hard, clinching and unclinching his fists rapidly in an effort to force himself to calm. "Do you think Santana is lonely, Noah…are you requesting she be given entertainment?"

"No," Puck ground out finally, but even so he couldn't keep himself from adding, "Leave my family alone. Don't go near my mother or sister. Leave them alone."

"Oh, there are others we could pay a visit to, if you would prefer," Remington replied all too blithely, and it was with savage hatred bubbling acid in his stomach that Puck observed how amused he was, how much he was enjoying this exchange, this control that he had developed over him. "There's your half brother Jake, he's a big guy for sixteen, and though not as much of our type as you are, he's getting there, and we could train him up shortly, no doubt. And of course, there's your ex, Quinn Fabray- but it's Lucy Quinn Fabray, to be more accurate, isn't it? Such a pretty little thing she is, it would certainly be an asset to add her to our services…and the adoptive mother of her child, Miss Corcoran, is hardly an eyesore either. A little old, perhaps, but there aren't many people who would turn down a face or body like hers, and there's certainly a market for older women and mothers for some. You would know, right?"

Puck's stomach churned at Remington's smirk aimed his way, and he genuinely thought for a few moments that he would be physically sick. His head tangled with too many thoughts, too many feelings all at once, Puck tried to make sense of this, to think of what to do. But what could he do, what could he possibly do when this man knew them all, when he could no doubt easily arrange to take any of them, the moment Puck fucked up for them?

And then he was speaking the last and most dangerous name, the name that was a breaking point of it all, and Puck could no longer even try to keep calm.

"And then there's that little girl of yours…Beth, isn't it? Such a pretty little thing, like mother, like daughter…a bit young for our tastes, but there's a market for that as well-"

"DON'T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HER!" Puck could not stop himself from screaming, and he hit the table then with both fists, once, twice, three times, beating his hands on the wooden top as he knew he could not do against Remington's body. "Don't you touch her, don't even say her name, don't you fucking DARE-"

"Calm yourself, Noah," Remington spoke over him, and the utter calmness in his own voice only enraged Puck further. But when he felt three men's hands taking hold of his arms, holding them behind his back in such a way that he could not possibly have broken free, Puck had little choice but to listen to him, even as he refused to look up into his face.

"They're safe," Remington assured him. "All of them. No one has so much as said boo to any of them….yet. But you must understand, Noah. We know them now, all of them, and we like what we see. If you were to fail to cooperate…we may become suddenly overcome with our desire to possess them, and we may be simply unable to control ourselves." He paused again, giving him time to consider. "Think this through carefully, Noah. How many people must be brought into this and made examples of before you agree?"

And Noah did think. He didn't want to escort strange girls, to force them to be moved to places and to men who would hurt them and have sex with them, most likely against their will. He didn't want to sell drugs or beat people who wouldn't cooperate with these men, or even stand around intimidating them. He didn't want to agree to do anything at all that they wanted him to do for them if it would benefit them in any way.

But these other people…the ones who would be affected negatively by his actions…they were nameless, faceless strangers, not people he loved and had responsibility towards. But his mother and his brother, his sister and Shelby, Quinn, Beth…if he said no, it would be them who were affected, even more so than these nameless people that were not his brother or his girls. It would affect Santana, who was right there in the mix of this with him. It could get any and all of them hurt, maybe even killed, and in the end that tipped the scales without a question.

He had to do it. As much as he hated it, and would hate himself for saying yes, he had to do it. There was no other option, not when all those names were thrown up against him.

Slowly, reluctantly he inclined his head in a nod, even as his nails dug hard into his palms, almost cutting the skin.

"I'll do it, you bastard. Whatever the fuck you want me to do, if you don't fucking touch any of them. I won't kill anyone and I won't rape them, I won't use your stupid drugs or hit a woman. But whatever the fuck else…I'll do it."

He hated Remington's responding smile, as though he were a child who had finally earned his approval by agreeing to obey.

"Good boy, I knew you were smarter than you looked. You'll start tomorrow."

Puck didn't bother to respond to him, trying to think through all the possibilities and implications of this new position. Maybe it would end up for the best after all. If Remington agreed that he didn't have to do the things he had just mentioned, maybe he would mostly be standing around. Maybe he could even attract someone's attention who could help him and Santana, maybe he could even get a chance to break away and get help for them. If he was being allowed out of the basement, then there was always that chance that he could escape. But then where would that leave Santana? If she was left behind while he was escaping, they would take it out on her...he had promised not to leave her. How was he going to keep that promise if he was let out of the basement to do this new job?

Suddenly the deal he had struck seemed horribly faulty and incomplete, and Puck's head shot up again as he stared at Remington, having forgotten to clarify one very important detail.

"What about Santana? What are you going to be doing with her while you're dragging me everywhere?"

"Oh, Santana will be working too, of course, do you think we would let her scooze by without earning her keep?" Remington seemed to take pleasure in watching Puck's response to this, laughing lightly at his responding expression. "She'll be one of our whores, of course, why do you think we were interested in taking her? She should earn us quite a lot of money, being new and not broken in yet. And it will be your job to escort her to her….shall we call them appointments?"

Puck felt as though a bucket of ice water had just been poured over his face. The response should not have been a shock; it was what Santana herself had been spelling out to him as the reality from the start. They knew who these people were and what they wanted, why they wanted Santana. But nevertheless he had somehow managed to half convince himself that it wasn't true, that it would never happen. He couldn't deal with the thought of Santana being pimped out to them and whoever else would pay, he couldn't deal with the thought of knowing that she was being hurt and frightened and used, and so he had managed to block the very likely probability out of his mind.

But here he was, hearing the words all over again, spoken not as a threat but as a promised intention, and Puck could not accept it. Would not accept it.

"No fucking way," was Puck's flat and adamant response as he shook his head vehemently, jabbing his finger at him as though he wanted to use it to poke out the man's eye. His voice was rising as he repeated himself, still shaking his head. "No fucking way are you touching her, let alone fucking her, no one is, NO ONE. That's no fucking deal. I won't do one thing you ask of me if you lay a hand on her. Here's the fucking deal, you can take it or leave it because I won't do a fucking thing other than this! She's with me. She stays with me, and NO ONE ELSE CAN TOUCH HER. I'll do whatever the fuck you want but you can't fucking touch Santana. EVER."

Remington's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline, and he gave a short laugh, shaking his head at the younger man as though his declaration was the silliest he had ever heard. Regardless, he rested his chin in his hand, regarding him.

"Here is the problem with this ultimatum of yours, boy. You can be as in love with your little girl here as you want, but you touching her doesn't bring us in any money here, does it? And you seem to have forgotten…you have no power here. Best remember that and remember that good."

But then his lips curved into a smile that Puck was entirely suspicious of, knowing it could mean absolutely nothing good for either one of them. The man's eyes glinted as he spoke, his voice lowering, almost a purr.

"But because I like you, boy, I will offer you one last option. You may keep your terms of how you will work for me- no sex, no drugs, and no beating women, in other words, denying yourself all fun- as long as you obey all else asked of you without question. And perhaps, if you are both very good without keeping our commands, we will agree that Santana will be reserved for you only. But it will then be your responsibility to break the little bitch in for us, to make sure she understands exactly what attitude we expect from her, exactly how high she is to jump when we ask her to do so. Her actions will be your responsibility and yet earn her own punishment. And here's what you'll have to do. We got some customers who like to watch on our live web cams, they pay good money to see a show. Maybe they're too shy to do it themselves, whatever, don't really care what their reasons are…but people from all around the world will pay to watch a hot girl with fake tits fuck a guy with decent sized pecs and abs."

He looked Puck up and down deliberately, as though to indicate that he himself possessed these, and when Puck just looked at him, not understanding what he was being told, Remington spelled it out for him.

"I need some more people to film for the live action website. If you really want to keep Santana all to yourself, be the only one to put it to her, you can do it…but you gotta do it where everyone else can at least share the visual experience. Fuck her good, whenever we ask, and you got your wish, no one else will touch her…as long as you both behave. I think that sounds more than fair, doesn't it, boy…really quite generous."

Puck froze. He could barely wrap his mind around what he was hearing, let alone respond to it immediately. He was no prude; he was more than used to sleeping with girls who meant nothing to him, to experimenting sexually, and he was no stranger to porn sites. But to video himself sleeping with someone for money...to let these bastards see it...and to do it with Santana, who would certainly not be willing, to humiliate and expose her in that way...the thought made him physically sick, and so angry he could feel himself starting to shake with held back rage. He didn't respond immediately, having to fight not to take the pizza box and the slices still left in it and throw it in Remington's face.

How could he do this? How could he take Santana, who was a lesbian with less than zero interest sexually in him, and have sex with her for anyone and their mother to watch?

"Come on boy." Remington laughed, looking at his boys all around him, smirking at them, as though encouraging them to join in at mocking him. "You a faggot or something? You don't like pussy? This is a good deal you have here…and remember what your other choices are. What do you say?"

Puck gritted his teeth, trying desperately to think of an alternative. Any alternative, anything that will save them both. Maybe he can fake sex with her. Maybe he can block the camera or block her with his body so it looks like they are but they're not. Maybe they can knock someone out with the camera once it's given to them, if he hits hard enough. But he can't think of any other option that will give them any chance at all...and if they're forced into this, at least Santana knows and can tolerate him. He would be gentle, if forced into this, he would actually give a shit what happened to her. Finally, hating himself for it, he nods.

"Good boy," Remington inclined his head in what Puck interpreted as a sarcastic manner, even as he smiled. "You will break her in tonight, get you both into the business straight away. As you earn it, you will both earn a place in the bedrooms upstairs. You will earn some money for yourself as well, during your duties to us, which is more than generous. I do hope you appreciate the benefits you are being given here."

This is the most fucked up, sickening moment of Puck's life. He has just agreed to whore his friend out live, for perverted, psychotic bastards to get their kicks off of. He's agreed to make his own personal and public sex tape. He's agreed to sleep with a girl who's a lesbian, regardless of whether or not she wants it, every night they ask him to, just to keep her from being raped by a stranger. It's the most horrific, unbelievable thing he could imagine, almost worse than killing Santana outright, and every bit as nauseating. He can feel his nearly empty stomach roiling now, and again he is shaking, wanting more than anything to lash out. But Santana's life seems to depend on this, so he simply nods. Hating every part of himself but even more so, this man.

He barely listens to a word that is said to him as Remington gestures for the guards to take hold of him, for them to practically physically propel him down the hallway to the basement stairs, and as they shove him through its opening, locking the door behind him, he believe that Remington had said something to him about explaining the terms of their agreement to Santana. As Puck began to slowly make his way down the stairs, almost stumbling on each one, he could not even begin to piece together how he would tell her, what he would say.

He was doing this for her, to protect her…to keep her as safe and unexploited as was possible. But how did you explain that to someone who was still going to be violated, no matter how much he tried to soften the experience?


	8. Chapter 8

As he descended the stairs, Puck almost stepped on the pizza box lying only a few feet away from the last stair, as though whoever had brought it there had simply slid it down the stairs' length. He didn't open it to make sure that there was actually pizza inside it, or to see whether Santana had eaten any of it. His eyes were seeking out Santana and Santana alone, and as soon as she was within his sight, he quickened his pace to get to her that much faster.

She had been sitting on the bed when he first saw her, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, face lowered into her knees. Her back was shaking, as though she were trembling or suppressing sobs, and Puck's heart leapt into his throat as he realized this. Had they already hurt her, regardless of what deal had been struck? Had someone already seen her, spoken to her, even though they had promised him she was being left alone? What if they had already laid out to her the deal he had struck, without him being able to explain in a better way? What if she didn't understand what he was trying to do for her…but then again, how the hell could she be expected to when Puck himself barely could?

Her head jerked up as she heard him moving down the stairs towards her, and Puck saw as she turned her face towards him that she had in fact been crying, that her eyes were wide and wet and glinting with fear, her cheeks damp with her tears. But even so she broke out into a huge, relieved smile, and for the first time since their captivity he actually saw a flicker of the dimples in her cheeks as she untangled her arms from around herself hastily and leapt to her feet, running to meet him halfway across the room.

"Puck!" she half shrieked, and before Puck had barely gotten his feet on the concrete floor and nudged the pizza box aside, she was flinging her full weight at him, squeezing him so tightly around the waist that he could feel her rib cage pressed against his lower torso.

She pressed her face into his chest, letting out a noise that was half laughter, half sob, and Puck felt a slightly sticky dampness, maybe of her rapid breathing, more likely of not quite finished tears, through his shirt, seeping into his skin where she continued to tightly embrace him. Wanting to hold onto her as much as she seemed to want and need to feel him, Puck hugged her back, splaying his hands over as much of her back as he could manage, enfolding her against him, and even impulsively kissed the top of her head.

"Hey, I'm here, I'm right here," he muttered to her, hearing his voice shake slightly and swallowing, trying to force a more normal tone. "Are you okay? You're not…hurt, or…"

He didn't want to release her to look at her more closely. If something had happened, he didn't want to know, let alone see with his own eyes any evidence left behind. He just wanted to hug her, just like he was doing, to stroke back her hair and pretend for just a few seconds that this meant that she was safe, that he could protect her with just the weight of his arms around her waist. To let her go would have to mean that Puck would have to look Santana in the eyes again, that he would have to sit her down and tell her what would be happening to her all too soon, and the idea was so dreadful he didn't want to consider it at all.

"No…no," Santana almost whispered back in response to his question, her own voice even more unsteady than his, and he felt her take a deep breath against his chest, her arms squeezing him even more tightly. "They just threw that box down the stairs, but they didn't talk to me or…anything else. I didn't eat anything." She took another breath, her voice a little louder, but not much steadier as she admitted, "You weren't here…I woke up and you weren't here, and I was so…I thought you were gone. I thought they were hurting you, or…" her voice trailed off, and she breathed in sharply, then gave Puck a little knuckling punch in the side, giving a short, not quite amused laugh. "Don't do that to me anymore, don't you dare, or Snixx is gonna make a scary but entertaining guest appearance."

"No, they didn't….I'm…I'm alright,'Tana," Puck told her, hearing the lie in his words as clearly as the anxiety in hers. He took a deep breath in, rubbing his hand over her back, and twined his other hand in her hair, keeping her close, trying to take comfort from her every bit as much as he was trying to give as he struggled to find the words to tell her what he needed to say. She seemed to notice his tension, his reluctance to explain, and she finally wiped her face against his shirt, then lifted her head to look up at him, her arms loosening around him as she narrowed her eyes at him, dread and suspicion coloring her gaze.

"Puck…where were you?"

The first of the many questions he didn't want to answer. But the answers had to be given, the words had to be said, and the longer he put it off, the closer the time would come before their first "performance" was demanded…and the less time they would have to plan and adjust. As much as he didn't want to talk about it, as much as he didn't want it to happen at all, Santana deserved to be prepared rather than thrown into the situation to sink or swim, and so Puck swallowed hard, then pushed her back a little more from him gently, making himself meet her eyes.

"Those dudes, 'Tana…they took me to this room upstairs. Look….we gotta talk, okay? Come sit down…we…we really gotta talk."

Sliding his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close, he guided her back to the bed, stooping first to pick up the pizza box discarded by the stairs. Although the thought of him eating made him feel physically ill, he wanted to make sure that Santana ate before she heard from him exactly what she could be expecting within the next several hours. He doubted she would be able to eat anything after she'd heard, or after they'd done what they had to do, so once they were seated again, Santana's face tilted towards him apprehensively, he held the box out to her, nodding for her to eat.

"It's safe, I promise. They gave me some upstairs. Eat at least two or three pieces before we talk, okay?"

"I want to hear what happened. I want to hear what they did to you, what they said…did they hurt you?" Santana doesn't yet open the box, sitting close enough to Puck that her hip and shoulder touched his on the bed. "Puck, what's going on?"

"Eat it, Santana, then we'll talk," he insisted, trying to keep his expression neutral and knowing from Santana's frown that he must be failing majorly. "Come on, I know you're hungry…eat."

He waited for her to finish all three of the pieces he had indicated to be the minimum amount for her to consume, even though with every passing second he felt as though his heart would leap straight out of his chest with his anxiety and he found it nearly impossible to sit still. Finally Santana had finished, and pushing the pizza box aside, turned back towards him, impatient, but also concerned. "Okay done, what is it, what's going on, what happened? Tell me…just give it to me straight, but say it, you're freaking me out."

It wasn't that easy. Puck wasn't generally the kind of person to beat around the bush or try to soften the blow of his words; he was hardly the nicest or most tactful person in the world, and he wasn't known for his diplomacy. But to sit here with Santana, look her in the eye, and tell her that he was going to fuck her and anyone in the world who wanted to was going to see, whether she liked it or not…how the hell was it even possible to just come out and say that to her? How the hell did he tell her that she had the choice between unwilling sex with a friend and straight up rape by a completely uncaring stranger?

Sliding his arm around her shoulders again, Puck pulled Santana against his side, noticing when her own slim arms lid around his waist, tightening slowly, even as she continued to look up at him, waiting, anxiety straining her features. He rubbed his hand up and down her arm, as though to try to soothe her response even before it came as he spoke, each word taut.

"I'm okay," he started out with, though this was not the strictest of truths. "I'm okay, San, they didn't hurt me. But…listen, San, I had to do something. I had to agree to something, and…I didn't want to, okay, I swear I didn't want to do it. I still don't. But I didn't have a choice, there was no other fucking choice, so…just…just listen and let me try to explain…they were gonna do shit to you, you can guess all the shit they were saying, and this, it was the only way I could keep it from happening, okay? So…just…you're gonna be pissed off but it's the only choice, I swear."

He realized that the hand that had been rubbing Santana's arm had stopped its slow trail up and down, that he was now gripping her arm, even squeezing it, probably to the point of discomfort on Santana's part. Stricken, he immediately let go of her arm, rubbing the place he had been squeezing, as though to soothe any pain this might have left her, but Santana didn't seem to register either gesture on his part. She was staring at him, brow furrowed, and under the circle of his arm he could feel her heart racing from where she was pressed into his side, her torso half turned into his rib cage. Puck started to rub her arm again, throat working as he tried to sort out what his next words to her would be to really delve into explaining, but Santana pulled away from him then, visibly swallowing as she placed space between their bodies. He saw her lick her lips, then press them briefly into a thin line before she spoke, her voice dropping.

"Puck…whatever it is, just say it. Stop trying to be careful about it, I'm not gonna lose it. I've got a pretty good idea of what you're gonna say anyway…so just come out with it. What is this deal you made, and what do we have to do."

Puck felt her absence as soon as she pulled away from him, a dearth of comfort for himself to be unable to try to provide it for her. To sit apart from her, with her not wanting to touch him, even before she knew what had been decided for her felt like a very bad sign, a rejection that genuinely hurt. And how much more was she going to want to be apart from him when he told her the truth, how much more disgusted would she be to even look at him, let alone touch him? How much was she going to hate him for the choice he had made on her behalf?

Puck reached out a hand to her, wanting to draw her back in, to try to indicate through touch that he didn't mean her any harm, but thought better of it, slowly dropping his hand back to his lap. Gripping his knee instead, he exerted pressure, digging in so hard his fingertips whitened. He exhaled, feeling a muscle in his jaw twitch as he swallowed again, then forced himself to look Santana in the eyes as he explained to her, trying to keep his voice flat and neutral but hearing the anger in it all the same. Anger at himself, just as much as at the men who had caused this, because hadn't he played his own part in it, no matter what his intentions?

"Santana…they were talking about…here's what they want. They want me to work for them…for money. At some point, eventually. Being one of their escorts or muscle or whatever. And I'm gonna have to do it. I don't want to," he added quickly, in case she started to accuse him of otherwise. He could already see her mouth opening, her brow furrowing as though she were about to start shooting questions his way, but he shook his head at her, wanting, no, needing to get through his explanation uninterrupted. If she started questioning him now, he'd never be able to explain himself the way he needed to.

"I don't want to, Santana, but I promise you there was no other choice. So this is what we're gonna have to do." He swallowed, feeling his back teeth grind together before he came out with it, straightforward. "We're gonna have to screw. Each other…on video. There ain't no other way around it. It's either that or they whore you out to any and every dude that comes through the door with cash in his hand. I got them to agree, Santana, I got them to promise that if we did this then no one else could have you, no one else could touch you…look, I know you don't want this, I know it sucks for you but…it's gotta be better than the alternative, right? And hey, if I'm working for them then maybe I got a chance to get help, we do this, just us, no one else, no one else is ever gonna touch you, I'll make sure of it, I swear. Whatever I gotta do I'll do it so you'll be okay. And…you know, maybe it won't be so bad. We've done this before, you know? We're both hot, and…it's not like we never did it before, so…who knows, it could be okay. I mean the camera part and people paying to see it is fucked up, but…maybe it won't be that bad. It's better than the alternative, right…San?"

He had expected Santana to explode the second he started talking, or at least as soon as he was finished. He had expected her to start yelling and cursing, flinging her arms about in dramatic gestures, maybe even hitting him or throwing things- maybe even crying. But she wasn't doing any of those things. She was just sitting there, motionless, staring at him almost without blinking, her lips parted, eyes growing wider and wider even as her face began to lose its color, and she wasn't saying anything at all. She was just looking at him in that odd, stunned manner until Puck was genuinely worried, until he started to think that maybe she was about to throw up or pass out. People did that on TV all the time when they heard bad news, at least in the cheesy old TV shows that he always flipped right through when channel surfing, but maybe that could actually happen.

"Santana…San?" he said tentatively, but when he tried to move a little closer to her on the bed, reaching out to touch her shoulder, Santana seemed to snap to life again.

With a sharp gasp that was almost a scream, she scrambled to her feet, both arms held out as though to ward him off, and backed far away from him and the bed, almost to the other side of the room. Puck could see her shaking, arms still held out, as she shook her head at him, just one time initially, then more and more insistently, her hair whipping back and forth across her face with the force of it as she finally gave a verbal response.

"No! No, I…no fucking way, NO FUCKING WAY, I'm not fucking doing that, NO!"

"Santana," Puck started, but then stopped, at a loss. He didn't dare stand up or move towards her, not now, not after what had just been said. At this point he wouldn't have been able to much blame her if she had tried to kick him in the crotch or tear his eyes out if he had persisted in trying to touch her. Sucking in his breath, running his hands over his face, he tried again, knowing even as he spoke that his words were weak. "Santana. It's not…I don't want to do this shit, believe me. There's no choice. I made this deal for you. So it would be better for you. We gotta talk about this, 'cause the way it sounded, it's gonna have to happen soon and when it does, we gotta be ready to-"

"BETTER FOR ME? You think it's fucking BETTER for me to fuck you for the world to see?! In case you missed the memo, Puck, I don't WANT to fuck you, I've been there, done that, I'm through with that shit, I'm through with any dude, I'm a fucking lesbian and I have beyond ZERO desire to fuck you or any other dick who can get it up!" Santana nearly screeched, but even as her entire body seemed to vibrate with her anger, Puck could see her fisted hands pressing hard into her thighs, her entire body still trembling so hard she could not entirely stand upright. "Sure, you think it's better for me, 'cause you're the one winning out here, you're the one hitting the jackpot, and what the fuck do I get out of this?! I get to fuck you for the entire population of Planet Pervert to see?! I get to have people snickering over the lesbian fucking the straight dude, I get to have people talking about how you gave it to me good, how you broke me in and FIXED me, is that my benefits here? How the hell are you doing me a fucking favor here?!"

"Because you fucking know me, Santana!" Puck's voice was raising too, despite his efforts to keep calm, despite his attempts to reign himself in. "Because you know me, you know who I am and where I've been, you've rode this ride before and you KNOW what to expect! You know I ain't gonna get rough or kinky, not if you didn't want it, you know I ain't gonna call you names or hurt you, you know I ain't gonna infect you with some disease or do shit just to embarrass you or make you beg me to stop! You know if you don't do this with me you're gonna do it with any guy who wants you, and the way you look, you know that's gonna be any guy who can get it up and probably a hell of a lot who can't! Because I might be a dick but I'm not a total asshole, and because I GIVE a shit about you, Santana! Because if we gotta do this, I'm gonna do whatever I gotta to try to make it okay, to make sure you're not hurt and you're as comfortable as you possibly can be, maybe even that you might get off a little, if you can, so don't even do this, don't try to make this like I'm doing this shit for me! This is for YOU, Santana, this is to try to help you, this is to make bad shit as least bad as it possibly can be, because I give a shit about you! Because I give a shit, Santana," his voice lowered, and he scrubbed a hand over his face again, releasing a slightly uneven breath. "We gotta do this or they're gonna do worse. I know it sucks, I know you don't want it, I know it's fucking wrong…I know. But…it's the best I could do. I'm sorry, San…but it's the best I can do."

For almost a full minute Santana didn't respond to him. Puck could see that she was still shaking, when he dared to look up at her, and from her audible, shaky breaths, he suspected she was crying, or close to it. She didn't remove her hand from her face, didn't straighten up her shoulders to look him head on, and when she finally spoke, her voice was small, almost crushed in sound in a manner that was deeply unsettling to him.

"I…I know, Puck…I know." And then, after another shuddering breath in, the words that were very rare from her, and entirely unexpected given the circumstances. "I…thank you."

Puck swallowed, his own breath releasing, and then took one slow step towards her. He wanted to give her some kind of reassurance, to let her know that he too hated this, that he too was upset, but the words seemed impossible to form on his tongue. He stopped moving then, as her hand slowly came down from her face, her eyes shifting upward to meet his. Dark, wide, and damp, they seemed to be begging him with one look all on their own, even before she spoke.

"Puck…if we have to do this…I know you're gonna do whatever shit you have to do, right…but don't kiss me. Not if they don't tell you to. Just…please don't kiss me."

For some it might seem a strange request, but Puck completely understood her reasoning behind it. Sex, as they would be required to be having it, would be done as a task, an obligation, something they could accomplish with as little emotion as possible, a matter of mechanics and physicality without anything more behind it. Sex could be impersonal, and would be, in this instance, accomplished solely because of compatible sexual organs rather than because the two people engaging in it had any feelings towards each other that were driving it to occur.

But kissing was something entirely different. Kissing was unnecessary to sex, driven by feelings and emotions, a desire to turn one's partner on and make them feel good. Kissing was personal, kissing was a decision and a desire rather than simply a task to be accomplished, and Puck could very well understand why Santana would choose to avoid it if at all possible.

Being forced to have sex with someone she had no romantic feelings towards was bad; being forced to do so knowing that others were watching was even worse. But having to kiss that person at the same time, to feign a feeling that did not exist, would only increase the sickness of the situation that much more.

"Yeah," he told her quietly, inclining his head in one brief nod. If not kissing helped get her through, he was more than happy to obey her request. "Yeah, I can do that, 'Tana."

Puck stood there, watching Santana and feeling as though he were already somehow violating her, already invading her privacy and her dignity simply by being in the same room, standing only a few feet away from her as she continued to struggle to keep herself held together. He could see her blinking frequently, still hugging her elbows against her chest, lips pressing into a thin line and then parting, as though intending to speak, before she would press them together again- all efforts that it didn't take a genius to interpret as her efforts to keep herself from crying. All made that much more evident when she spoke up again, her voice dropping low, husky in tone as she nearly pleaded for a last promise from him.

"Puck…you said…they're not going to touch me? Just you? Are you sure? Are you…"

Seeing her expression then, hearing the near break in her voice, was enough for Puck to almost crack himself. He wanted to turn around and start slamming his fists into the wall, never mind that they were concrete and would only cause damage to himself. He wanted to take the bed, the same bed that they would almost certainly have to be using in an all new manner by the day's end, and slam it repeatedly into the basement door, even though he knew logically it was likely too wide to fit all the way through the stairwell and too heavy to lift by himself. He wanted more than anything to break down the door, to find Remington and every man that he worked for, and beat them, one by one, until they were comatose, if not worse. He wanted to hurt someone, something, in some way, so he could finally feel satisfied that they had at last received their due.

But almost as strongly, looking at Santana then, he wanted to cry. Because as much as they both had been through, over the past five years, as many times and for as many reasons as he had witnessed her upset or in tears, he had never seen her look quite as vulnerable as she did to him then.

"I promise," he told her, hearing his own voice catch slightly as he spoke with as much sincerity as he could possibly convey. "I promise, San. They will never touch you…I promise."

He saw her nod, just a little, her eyes shifting back down to the floor. And then with an audible exhalation, she began to step forward, slowly, but steadily, walking straight to him, before wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Puck could feel her still shaking, her heart racing much too hard, much too fast against his ribcage, and then her tears were dampening his chest through his shirt, not much space apart from where she had, such a short time ago, already left their mark on his skin. Her hands splayed flat against his back, long fingernails digging in slightly, but Puck felt no real pain. He simply wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head, and tried to force down the violent feelings that fought for control within him. That these men could bring Santana Lopez to tears, could drive her to seeking comfort in his arms, of all people's…even as he held her, his hands shook with the strength of his desire to cause them intense physical harm.

But Puck made himself unclench his hands, made himself use them instead to rub Santana's back, gently tracing small circles between her shoulder blades, in the small of her back. He cleared his throat repeatedly, trying and failing to lessen the roughness of his tone as he continued to try to assure her.

"'Tana, it's gonna be okay. Well…not okay…but we're gonna get through, all right? I promise, they'll never touch you, just me. Only me…not much different than now, right? Just…more naked and with some penis action. What's a little less clothes between friends, right?"

He was hoping that she would find this at least mildly humorous, that she would laugh, scoff, or even insult him, as would be typical of her. But Santana didn't seem to find this funny at all. In fact, she sobbed, her nails digging harder into his back, as Puck cursed himself, attempting to take another tactic.

"Hey…hey, you're gonna be in control here, San…listen, you've got control. Whatever we do, whatever they want us to do, you got the control, okay?" he told her quietly, leaning his head down enough that he could speak this right into her ear. Continuing to rub her back, swallowing audibly, he kept talking, hoping that she was listening, making his own self resolutions on the spot.

"I'm gonna talk you through it the whole time, okay? Where they can't hear. I'll talk into your ear, just like now. We can pretend we're kissing or whatever, even if we're not, and I'll be talking to you, the whole damn time. We can cuss 'em all out under our breaths if we want, or we can tell yo mama jokes, whatever gets you through. And you tell me what to do, San. You tell me what I can do and what I can't, you tell me where I can touch and where I can't. It's up to you. I'll block you the best I can from cameras so they don't see more than they gotta…I'll…I won't hurt you, San, you know that. You know I'm never gonna hurt you. I'll try to make this okay, I promise you. I'm gonna try to make this okay."

He wasn't sure she was listening to him at first, or that she was in any state of mind to care what he had to say. But after a few more moments, he felt her take a deep breath, then nod against his chest. And then she was lifting her head, wiping each side of her face with quick shrugs of her shoulders before she looked up at him, meeting his eyes with hers.

"I just…it's been a while with a guy, so…be…be gentle…okay?"

In all the years he had known her, never would Puck have thought a day would come where he would be standing in front of Santana Lopez, listening to her ask him in an unsteady voice, with tears standing in her eyes, to be gentle with her. He could feel a raw emotion burning the back of his throat, perhaps anger, perhaps tears, and as he nodded roughly, trying to force it down, he hoped with all his heart that she couldn't see, whatever it might be.

"Yeah. Yeah, 'Tana…I will be."

Another visible breath from her, and then Santana was stepping back from the looser circle of his arms, as she continued to pull herself back together. Running fingers through her hair, scrubbing more thoroughly beneath her eyes with her fingertips, nervously smoothing out wrinkles from her clothes, she barely glanced towards him now as she asked, "When is this happening? Can we not just get it the hell over with, 'cause if they're gonna make us wait all day-"

It was almost as though in response to her barely finished question that the basement door opened then, and Remington and his three guards descended the stairs. Puck could see that one of them was carrying a video camera, the other a laptop, and as the third turned to lock the basement door, Remington smirked in their direction, deliberately looking them up and down. While the other three men began the process of hooking up the camera to the laptop, then setting it on a tripod directly across from the bed, Remington lingered back by the staircase as he addressed them both.

"I think it's time for your first act, isn't it? Time to start earning your keep around here, you've both been very lazy and we've been very generous with providing for you as you…shall we say got acquainted? But now we've given you ample time to know each other, and it's time to show us just how much you appreciate us all. Tell you what, we'll even give you some privacy…we'll watch online like everyone else, right outside the door. But let me warn you both…if you don't make this worth our while, or if you can't get it up, Noah, rest assured that any of the four of us would be willing to step in. If you touch the computer or turn the video camera off before you're finished, there will be consequences, and I'm certain I don't' have to detail them to you, you both have enough imagination to get the picture. Have fun…all of us and your many interested customers are looking forward to this."

All this time Santana had again reattached herself to Puck's side, both arms wrapped tightly around him as she appeared to be attempting to mold herself into him. She shuddered when Remington winked at her, and as the video camera and computer both were turned on, and the four men ascended the stairs again, shutting and locking the door behind them, she did not immediately leave his side.

This was it. The two of them, alone, with the exception of the innumerable, faceless viewers now watching them, all with the expectation of their impending sexual encounter. Just the two of them, and neither had ever felt less sexy or more frightened in their lives.


	9. Chapter 9

Warning: Sexual content, of dubious consent.

PS: I love reviews :) Thank you so much for those who are reviewing and I would love to hear from the 2000 of you who are viewing and not reviewing! Lol. It's great motivation

Puck didn't want to make a move, not so much as a single gesture towards Santana to imply anything sexual at all. He didn't want to feel like an aggressor, like someone who was taking something by force- like the word he was determinedly trying to skip around, inside his mind, which kept coming back all the same, stronger and more insistent each time it crossed his thoughts.

Rapist. He didn't want to feel like Santana's rapist, and yet he could not seem to shake his own self-accusation even before he had so much as touched bare skin.

But how long could he stand there, with Santana arms wrapped around his waist from the side, unwilling and unwanting of any advances? How long could he protect her from his own touch, his own body- and how long could resistance to touching her truly protect her at all, when it would result in so many more doing exactly that and worse?

Inhaling slowly, Puck looked down at her, forming her name on his lips. But before he spoke, or attempted to pull back from her, Santana seemed to be reaching this conclusion on her own. Swallowing audibly, her breath releasing just after his in a shuddering sigh, she slowly unwound herself from him, stepping back. Turning her back to Puck, she began to slip her shirt off over her head. He could see her hands shaking, and when the shirt was discarded to the floor, exposing the delicate vertebrae of her backbone , just visible beneath the thick curtain of her dark hair and the slim hooks of the back of her bra, Santana began to undo, then step out of her pants. For another few moments she remained turned away from him, and still Puck could see her shaking as she hugged herself, head lowered so far towards the ground that her long hair spilled over her shoulders, arching towards the floor. Then she slowly straightened up, uncrossed her arms, and turned towards him, facing him, even looking him in the eyes. Standing only in her bra and underwear before Puck, close enough that he could reach out to touch her, if he chose, Santana licked her lips nervously, and her voice was a whisper, only loud enough for Puck to hear, when she spoke to him.

"Get it over with...hurry. Just…come on, let's get this over with."

Looking at her, it was very clear to Puck how afraid she was, how much she was dreading him so much as touching her in any way that was even implying sexuality. And yet she had been the first to leave the small comfort his arms had attempted to give her; she had been the first to undress, to indicate to him that she could and would go through with this. The bravery and strength she was showing then made Puck's heart twist with a sudden pained affection and even love for her, and he stepped forward, taking hold of her upper arms, and leaned in to kiss her forehead gently, tilting his head forward to whisper into her ear.

"Gonna be okay, 'Tana. You're awesome, you know that? We got this…we can do this. Gonna be okay."

He kissed the space beside her ear, then her jawline, then her cheek, using the opportunity of the kisses for his whispering in between each kiss. Shifting his hand to her upper back, he rubbed a circle in between her shoulder blades, feeling the taut, knotted muscles beneath and trying to give them some sense of soothing, if not the fuller, comforting treatment they likely needed. Then, stepping apart from her, he took off his shirt, watching her face as though for permission to continue. Tossing it aside, he slid out of his jeans; both he and Santana had barely had to unzip to pull their pants down, as both were rather loose now after their days of pacing without food. Standing before her in his boxers, he stepped closer, then, watching her face, took hold of her hands, slowly pulling her back towards the bed. Sitting down on it, and gently tugging her to sit beside him, he hesitated, stealing a glance back at the camera, directly across from them.

It was very distracting, and even more so disturbing, to know that in that moment, not just Remington and his three stooges, but hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of people all around the world were currently watching their every move. There was no telling who could see them now, whether people were recording them on top of the recording already being made. They could be a viral sex tape, for all Puck knew, they could be placing bets on them, having who knew what kind of sick fantasies. It didn't matter as much for him- for the most part, he could shrug it off, even if the thought of dudes whacking off to him naked was more than a little uncomfortable and not a thought he wanted to entertain for long. But knowing that these people were thinking that way about Santana, when this was not a situation she had chosen or could control…that was entirely different.

It was so tempting then to take the computer and smash it to the ground, to take the camera and break its lens, throw it into the nearest wall, grab the tripod, and start swinging at any men who came running down the stairs to them. But Puck knew logically that this would be the worst possible decision. Even with a tripod for a weapon, he could not win against four larger men with guns, and if they grabbed hold of Santana then it would all be over. He had to let this happen, he had to go through with it, and there was absolutely nothing he could do.

Exhaling, with another glare in the camera's direction, Puck reached out for Santana's bra, knowing that if he didn't start moving faster soon, it was very likely that the men would come down after them anyway, demanding he uphold his end of their bargain. He watched Santana's face as he began to unclip her bra, but when horror and protest flitted over her features, and she started to put up her hands, as though to stop him, he froze, beginning to put his hands down again.

He couldn't do this. If she was this unwilling, if she wouldn't even let him look at her naked, let alone have sex with her, how was he possibly going to go through with this, no matter what the consequences might be of refusing?

"Puck-" Santana started, her voice choked, but then her eyes flitted to the camera, silently recording their every move, and even as her eyes grew wet, she took in a deep breath, her exposed chest very visibly rising and falling as she struggled for control. Eyes still on the camera, she slowly removed the bra herself, then, hands moving to her hipbones, straightened her legs, standing just long enough to slip off her panties as well. As Puck kept his eyes glued to her face, now unsure of what she wanted him to do, or more accurately, what she would allow him to do, Santana breathed out again, turning towards him on the bed, and spoke again, both her voice and her eyes revealing held back tears.

"Please just do it. Do something…just do it…"

She was holding herself so tightly that every muscle was pulled taut, occasionally twitching with her continued nerves. Santana repeatedly licked her lips, pressed them tightly together, and then licked them again, seeming to be trying to hold back words or perhaps cries that were near escaping her control. Blinking frequently, she was bracing herself, turning fully towards Puck as she awaited his next touch.

Puck was not a person of great sentiment or sensitivity, at least in his own opinion, and it hadn't been too often throughout his life that he used or thought of any phrase in reference to himself, his thoughts, or his feelings that had anything to do with his heart. But looking at Santana then, trying so hard to face him and not the hundreds or thousands of faceless viewers watching them both, seeing how determinedly she was fighting to keep herself somewhat calm, Puck's heart hurt to the point that he could almost understand what people really meant when they described hearts as being broken.

It was that sharp, jagged feeling in a person's chest, a pain that was almost nauseating in its intensity, a pain that could make a person dizzy with grief. It was a pain that a person could do nothing to ease, could not be distracted from, and Puck hated it with every bit of his being.

He wanted to tell Santana then to put her clothes back on. He wanted to hand her back her clothes plus his own and tell her to go into the bathroom, that he'll drag the bed over to block the door and deal with the men who would come, whatever it was they would do to him. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry he had promised he would never hurt her, when it was so obvious that even him looking at her or touching her in a nonsexual way right now was hurting her more than he could probably ever even try to understand. He wanted to tell her to forget it all, that the deal was over and he would never touch her again. Ever.

But it couldn't be done. Even if by some miracle the men could not move the bed to get to her, then she would be left in there to slowly starve. He could not stand his ground against them, and he would be so badly injured he could not help her, if not killed outright. She would be left alone to be starved or used any way they chose; these facts had already been made plain. Maybe she didn't want him touching her, but at least he was aware of this and cared, and there was no better choice.

So Puck slowly removed his boxers, kicking them a little ways apart from the bed, and now, very much aware of both their naked bodies, still trying to keep his eyes on her face, he turned towards her, again taking hold of her shoulders. His lips ghosted over the top of her head as he tried to angle his body in such a way, simultaneously, that most of her body was blocked from the camera's view. Slowly, testing her boundaries, trying to give her time to get used to his touch, he began to lightly caress her skin, stroking his fingertips over first her shoulders and collarbone, then her neck and arms, trailing down her sides and stomach as well. He didn't try to touch her breasts or thighs, let alone her vagina. Santana endured this all, though he noticed her grow short of breath, her eyes tracing the movement of his hands as though she could somehow guide or control their movements simply by watching. She swallowed frequently, and when Puck leaned in to kiss her cheek, he whispered quickly in her ear.

"I'm gonna touch your boob, okay?"

He just barely felt her nod, her breath a sharp sigh against his skin as he pulled back. But as he hesitantly reached, with an unwilling glance towards the camera, to cup her breast in his hand, beginning to gently rub at her nipple with his thumb, Santana's entire frame stiffened, and her hand came up as though on instinct, knocking his hand away from her. Her eyes squeezed shut, her arms crossing over her breasts, and she shuddered, rocking forward slightly as she shook her head, lips pressing into a line so thin her usually full lips nearly disappeared. One sob escaped, and then she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around Puck's neck so tightly he gave an involuntary grunt as she clung to him, burying her face in his upper chest. It was very obvious to Puck that this was no embrace of passion, but rather a reaching for comfort, as well as an effort to hide herself from the camera, to stop his hands from any further efforts at sexual touching. He could feel her shaking, her heart hammering nearly uncontrollably in her chest, her painfully silent tears wetting his skin, and he automatically wrapped his arms around her, feeling only the smallest flicker of eroticism to this closeness of contact, even as her bare breasts flattened against his skin. And as Puck automatically holds her, shields her, beginning to stroke her back, he makes up his mind then and there that they cannot do this.

He can't. He will not make himself her rapist, even if that means that other people will then step up in his place. He can't go through with this, not if she can't calm down; how would he even be able to get it up, with a cry shaking and crying at the mere suggestion of sexual touch? He's going to have to fight, he's going to have to try to hurt them, even if he can't kill them. He's going to have to-

And then the basement door cracked open, and Remington's voice shouted down at them, reminding them of the exact nature of what had been set before them.

"You have five minutes to give these people the fuck fest they paid for, or I will show you exactly what's expected of you. And so will the others…if you need so much practice, we'll be happy to help you learn, the both of you."

As the door slammed closed again, Puck could barely breathe. He could not do this; he knew he couldn't. it wasn't possible for him to go through with this, not like this.

He started to say as much to Santana, to tell her to get up and go into the bathroom, that the plan had now changed. He started to tell her to help him move the bed closer to the bathroom, so he could push it against it more easily once she was inside. But before he could say anything, Santana took another long, shuddering breath in, sniffling back tears, and lifted her face, unwinding herself from around him. With teary eyes, her face pale and strained, she looked back at him, seeming to be coming to a decision. And then she suddenly cupped one hand over the back of Puck's head, her other hand tightly gripping his shoulder, and leaned in, nearly crushing her lips against his.

Santana was kissing him. Santana was kissing him, without someone making her do it, without someone even implying that it was expected. Santana was kissing him, after specifically asking him not to kiss her, and Puck doesn't understand at all.

Of course, he knows that she doesn't genuinely want to kiss him. Even as she did so there was no true desire behind it, Puck could feel that. Her mouth was on his without tongue, her lips opening and closing in a rough, mechanical sort of way, and she moved her head in such a showy fashion that it was likely the cameras could not see what she was really doing very well, but it would appear to those viewing that she was very much into the kissing. Her hair brushed Puck's chest and covered half their faces, and this too provided a partial curtain against the very shallow, passionless nature of her kiss.

For the first few seconds Puck is too taken aback by her action to really register what she's doing, let alone to kiss her back. He doesn't understand why she's doing this, why she would suddenly change her mind when she had been so upset about him even touching her breast, even looking at her naked. But as Santana persists in kissing him, and even ran one hand through his hair, the other lightly, gingerly stroking down his neck and then across his back, Puck could feel the continued tension in her body, the hesitation in the lightness of her touch even as she doggedly persisted, and he then understood what she was doing and why, despite her clear desire to stop.

She knew the stakes of their circumstances every bit as well as he did. She knew that if she didn't do something immediately to make it look as though she were into him and having sex with him, that the viewers, and more importantly, the men directly outside the basement door, would get impatient and frustrated, and the stakes would have to be raised that much higher for their satisfaction. She knew that they had no tolerance for her distaste or her shame, her emotions or her fears, and she could not show it any longer where they could see. Santana Lopez was no idiot, and she knew what she needed to do, to keep herself from feeling any worse than she already did.

And she was strong and brave enough to make herself go through with it, even if Puck didn't have to heart to make her himself.

And so she kissed him, running her hands up and down his sides and across the muscles of his chest, pressing herself closer to him, and moved herself against him in an overly squirmy and dramatic fashion, as though to indicate uncontainable passion, even as her heart continued to race in her chest against Puck's own, even as he could hear her shallow breaths near his ear and knew her difficulty breathing normally was not a result of passion, even as he smelled the salty remnants of her tears against his own skin. She kissed him, and once he had figured out her change in game plan, Puck kissed her back.

He tried to follow her lead, not touching her anywhere that she hadn't touched him first, not kissing her any differently than she was kissing him. He tried to be gentle, keeping his mouth open but his tongue to itself, and when he heard her inhale sharply, he pulled his head away, shifting his hand to rub in what he hoped was a soothing manner over her hip and side. Puck shifted his kissing then to her cheek, her neck, and behind her ear, taking the opportunity of this apparent affection to whisper to her again. "It's okay. We're okay. We got this…we're okay."

Santana had been almost in his lap, but now she takes a deep breath, embracing him hard, and then deliberately pushes back from him, instead lying back on the bed. She is now nearly fully exposed to the camera, and Puck can see how frightened this makes her, how her chest is visibly rising and falling in too fast and too shallow breaths in response to this. Nevertheless, she swallows and reaches for his hand, pulling him down over her as though in invitation for more. Puck lets her guide him down, trying to cover her body with his with as little invasiveness and weight as possible. In spite of himself he can feel his penis growing hard against her leg, her thigh muscle twitching and tensing in response beneath, and he quickly strokes her neck, kissing her again briefly first on the mouth, then on the neck, as he hurriedly whispers to her again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…you okay?"

"Just do it," she breathes back, not an answer to the question he had asked her, but then she was kissing him again, still without any feeling or enjoyment behind it, but nevertheless an answering permission, as Puck interpreted it. "Just…hurry, just do it, before…"

She doesn't have to clarify what she means; Puck understands all too well. Swallowing, he runs his fingers through her hair, kissing her neck one more time in what he hopes she interprets as a comforting manner, and squeezes her shoulder before sitting up, still straddling her, just enough to begin to prepare her for what he knows needs to be done.

Santana wants him to hurry, to get the sex act over with as fast as possible, but Puck can't do that. Though he is turned on in spite of himself, Puck Jr having a mind of its own, he can't simply push inside her when she is completely dry. He doesn't want to hurt her or cause her any more discomfort than the situation already brings, so he doesn't at first ask her to open her legs for him. Instead, he begins to gently rub Santana's thighs, stroking and massaging them with gentle pressure in an effort to get her to relax, maybe even to turn her on just enough that she will be ready for him, when she needs to be. He is very much aware of the slipping time through their hands, the fact that if those men literally meant five minutes, he would have to start soon to really satisfy them. But hopefully they were so mesmerized by their movements now that they would have patience…hopefully they were also interested in foreplay, however long it might take.

Puck doubted it, but he hoped. As he watched Santana's face, noting that her eyes had closed, that her features were still tensed, he slowly slipped his hand between her legs, now rubbing her inner thighs as well. At first she stiffened, nearly trapping his hand between her legs, but then, either through her own deliberate effort or his continued touch, she relaxed them slightly.

"You can…touch me," she mumbled, though her eyes remained closed, and it appeared that she was biting the inside of her cheeks. She was no longer touching Puck herself, however, but rather simply attempting to make herself available to him, and it took him another few seconds to inner struggling to make the decision to continue.

On instinct he leans forward to kiss her, then allows his body to fully cover hers again, lying over her as much to protect her from the camera's view as to begin the sexual act. Santana detaches her mouth from his shortly after, and instead her arms lock around his back, her nails digging in as she buries her face in his neck. To any viewer this likely looked like a move of passion, but Puck could feel her quick breaths against his skin, her flushed face sniffling back tears she would not let fall, and he knew this was not the case. Nevertheless she held on without pushing him away, so he cupped her sex with his hand, beginning to rub her gently. He didn't penetrate her with his fingers, just trying to prepare her, to get her aroused enough to be ready for rougher action. In his head he kept hearing her soft request for him to be gentle with her, and Puck could not have let himself be any other way.

She still wasn't stopping him, so after a few more moments of this Puck slid one finger inside her, testing, and then began to gently rub her inner walls, relieved when he felt her dampness against his skin. Finding her clitoris, he stroked it carefully, hearing Santana inhale sharply against his neck and almost smiling in spite of the intense near grimness of the moment. He felt her shudder, but there was a difference in it now; her body was responding not with fear or dread, but with pleasure, however involuntary.

Weird and inappropriate as it was, Puck couldn't help but take a small satisfaction in this. Yep, he still did have it, if he could still turn on a lesbian, even under these circumstances.

"You can do it now," she whispers near his ear, and suddenly she is pulling back from his neck, kissing him again, breathing the words under her breath. "I'm…I'm okay…just do it, Puck, please, I don't want them to come in here, I don't want them to take you away from me. You can do it."

Santana is at least a little wet now, but not enough to satisfy Puck. But still, she is right; they don't have much time, and she is telling him to go forward, telling him to finish, and she's probably right, sooner rather than later is the way to go.

Taking in a slow breath, he tells himself that she is willing to do what is needed. He isn't forcing anything on her, not where it counts. "Okay," he told her, kissing her back, one hand stroking her hair back from her face before he kisses the hollow of her throat, aware of her pulse beating wildly beneath. "Okay." He strokes her clitoris one more time, then pulls his hand away, instead bracing it against the bed near her ribcage, trying to give himself added support. With his other hand he grasps for hers, squeezing hard, and then he slowly begins to enter her, trying to adjust himself to an angle that will be most comfortable for them both. He kisses her again, squeezing her hand; she is so tight and hot around him that he is worried he's hurting her, and for his first thrust he struggles for control, not wanting to go too hard or too deep if she's not ready or if it's a bad angle.

Almost immediately Puck can feel her tense beneath him and is pretty sure that it's not out of pleasure. He wants to pull all stops then, to pull out from her and just go back to hugging her, to get rid of the disgust and guilt he is feeling from this entire situation. He is disgusted with himself for the pleasure he does feel, the purely physical enjoyment of a beautiful woman's skin against his, for her lips against him and her core tight around his penis.

But then Santana breathes out sharply, squeezing his hand hard, and kisses his neck. He isn't sure if this is playacting on her part or genuine attempt at affection, a comfort or reassurance towards HIM that he is okay, that he can continue, that she will be all right. It seems to be both, for she whispers again, digging her nails into his hand.

"Keep…keep going…"

He can feel her trying to relax her body beneath him, even as she is shaking again, not with pleasure now. His throat choking up, Puck squeezes her hand again, briefly burying his face in her chest. Hearing her heartbeat, he kisses her chest, just above her breast, then her collarbone, trying to keep her calm. Still holding her hand, he thrusts again, then a third time, grunting involuntarily, hoping that he is hitting her clit in the process, giving her at least some pleasure. Because he is still holding back some, it is difficult for him to judge. He can feel himself on the verge of cumming but holds back for the moment, waiting for further input from her.

And she gives it. In fact, she completely stuns him when she starts to moan out loud, suddenly calling out his name in a breathless, high pitched voice that Puck has never heard before from her in his entire history of knowing her.

"Faster, Puck, faster…oh, fuck me hard, harder, harder…"

Puck is so astonished by this new addition to their scenario together that he almost loses his erection, almost pulls out from her and simply gawks at her in shock. But as Santana continues to moan doggedly, even bucking her hips and more tightly wrapping her legs around his hips, her arms around his back, Puck quickly clues in. She's giving them what they want, playing for all she has to make certain that the grand finale would be satisfying…enough so that they would leave them both alone after. She's putting all she has into this to continue to feed this allusion, to save them both, and the sudden and intense respect and love Puck feels for her then is intense enough that he wants to hug her harder and longer than he's ever hugged anyone in all his life.

She's putting on a show, literally making herself a whore for them, and as much as it angers him that she has to, he knows too that he has to play along. And it's not like he doesn't enjoy this on a physical level. Following her instructions, he pushed into her harder, faster, no longer concentrating as much on control. He pulled her in closer to him, so her breasts press into his chest, and he kisses her, this time with tongue, deliberately groaning himself, then forcing out a few sentences to up it. "You're so tight...you're so tight, babe...you like this, you like to fuck me? I'm gonna make you cum..." in her ear he keeps whispering in between loud grunts, "you're okay. we're okay."

For a few more seconds they get through this, both of them grinding out whole dispassionate gruntings and empty words of lust, but then Puck can feel Santana's chest start to heave, and she stops talking abruptly. When she puts her face back into his neck and he feels her tears against his skin, he knows they're going to have to wrap it up fast, before the entire illusion they had struggled to maintain collapses. She is starting to break, unable to keep this up much longer, and when she whispers to him, her voice is so small and strained with tears he barely understands her.

"Please finish, please hurry, please…"

Puck's heart wrenches as he hears Santana's whispered words. He can feel her breath hitching against his neck, her heart pounding hard against his own, and the tears straining her voice are obvious. This is all an act, and as bravely as she's been participating, as strong as she's been, this is hurting her. A new wave of emotion comes over him, and he hides his face against her chest so the camera will not see, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her up so they are both sitting up to finish off, arms twined around each other. He is losing his erection now, and has to thrust a few more times before he can manage to cum- the most unsatisfying finish of his life. Breathing heavily, he remains motionless for a few seconds, still concealing his face from the camera, attempting to shield Santana the best that he can as well. Realizing that the show has to finish off in a similar manner as they had attempted to convey, he forced himself to speak, to roughen his voice.

"And that's the way it's done. Broke this one in good."

Sickened by his own words, he gently detangles himself from Santana, getting up and turning off the video camera then. Hopefully they won't come in, hopefully that will be enough to satisfy them. He didn't wait to see. Instead he immediately comes back to Santana and sits beside her on the bed, not trying to hug her or touch her too intimately now, but reaching for her hand and holding it tightly, still trying to swallow back against the bile rising in his throat.

"I'm sorry. Santana, I'm sorry, I tried...tried to be...are you okay?"

As soon as he had pulled apart from her to turn off the camera, Santana had immediately curled into a ball on the bed, as though to protect herself from further viewing, further touching in her most private parts. Hugging her knees to her chest, she had shut her eyes, trembling visibly even from across the room. When Puck sat next to her, and she felt the shifting of weight on the bed, her eyes had flown open, but it was when he touched her that she reacted most strongly. Sitting up with a sharp inhalation in, she pulled back from him, shaking her head, even as tears came to her eyes. She kept shaking her head, biting down on her lower lip as she reached to wrap the bed's sheet around herself, blocking herself from his view. Seeing her reaction, Puck felt his stomach drop sickeningly. He had never felt worse about himself as a person than he did then, watching Santana's reaction to even this small touch from him.

"I…I…I'm sorry…I…"

And then she was crying, full on, the tears seeming to explode from her eyes in near torrents even at this simple attempt to speak, to explain her response to him. Santana lowered her head, clutching the sheet more tightly around herself, and didn't even attempt to keep going on with her apology or explanation to him. Instead she got to her feet unsteadily and headed as fast as it seemed she could manage to the bathroom, barely managing to choke out, "Shower…"

The door slammed behind her, and even when the water turned on, Puck could still hear the muffled sound of her crying. He could all too clearly imagine her, hunched over on the tub's floor, her hair sodden around her shoulders as she sobbed alone, but he could not go to her. He couldn't go near her, not now, not after this…he could not be the one to comfort her, because he was the one who had caused her this much pain.

. He can see how upset she is, how disgusting she feels, and knows it's because of what just happened- what he just did to her. He had tried, he had done everything he could to try to make it better for her, the best possible, and it still wasn't enough. He had still, in the technical and emotional sense of the word, raped her. His friend. One of his girls. He had had sex with her, against her will, knowing full well how upset it was making her. Granted, he had been saving her from worse. Granted, she had agreed, verbally, at least. But he had felt the protest in her body and knew every second that this was a violation.

Listening to her sobbing in tandem with the rushing water of the shower on the other side of the bathroom door, Puck slowly sank to the ground, leaning back against the wall and burying his face in his hands. He couldn't sit on the bed, not now, not after what had just happened. Maybe never again. He wouldn't be surprised if Santana chose to sleep in the bathtub from now on; hell, he would choose to sleep sitting up on the toilet if he had to, if he were her. Face in his hands, he sat, desperately fighting against his own threatening tears.

He had done this for her, to protect her. Then how did he feel like he had been the one to cause her the most harm?


	10. Chapter 10

It seemed to be hours before Santana finally emerged from the bathroom. Puck had no way of measuring time, but it certainly seemed overly extensive, in his opinion. In all the time that Santana had remained in the bathroom, he had had nothing to do but stare at the wall or the floor, occasionally running his hands through his hair or massaging his temples with his fingertips, waiting for her to finally return to him.

The men had come to retrieve the camera and computer within five minutes of her disappearing into the bathroom, and Puck had been glad of it; it was bad enough that they had leered at him in his still naked state, that they had looked him up and down and made comments about his performance, about how he had enjoyed himself. It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to attack them, and in fact it was only his fear that they would break down the shower door, pull Santana out of the shower, and draw her into the mocking, or even worse, so recently after what had happened, that made him keep his fists at his sides. When the men left with a parting shot about rebound performances, Puck had had to clinch his jaw so tightly to keep from cursing out every one of them that he had experienced a sharp pain even after they had left, locking the door behind them.

He had started to wonder after the first ten to fifteen minutes after the men had left if Santana would ever come out at all. He couldn't say he would blame her if she chose not to; in fact, it might be the smartest thing she could do, what he had sort of wanted her to do from the start. But he had already run through all the possible outcomes of that decision in his head, none of them excellent, and however she was feeling then, Santana was smart enough to realize this eventually too. So he waited, listening to her cry quieten, then stop entirely as the flow of water continued. There was no way she was still getting hot water, not after that period of time, and Puck tried not to think about how cold she must be, if she were still sitting or standing in the tub, letting the chilly water continue to wash over her. He waited, and when Santana finally opened the bathroom door, he tried to resist his urge to jump to his feet to go to her, to look her over more closely, to try to convince himself that she was okay.

Santana's hair was loose and damp around her back, but not dripping water droplets; it appeared she had tried to dry it with a towel and then gave up and decided to let it air dry. It wasn't as though they didn't have the time to allow for it. She was wrapped in a towel, clutching it around herself so tightly he could see that her fingers had gone white, as though she were afraid that if she let down her guard for one second, it would fall down and expose her all over again , just as Puck was; within five minutes of the men's arrival, he had pulled his clothes back on again, but Santana had gone into the bathroom without thinking to take hers with her. He noticed, as he had on the bed, how prominent her collarbone was, how small and sharp her shoulders appeared to him, and her skin looked reddened and raw, as though she had nearly scalded herself, though the hot water must have run out some time ago.

He didn't comment on this; in fact, Puck barely looked at her. When Santana, still standing near the bathroom door, asked him in a very quiet voice to hand over her discarded clothing, he picked it up off the floor, holding it gingerly, as though it were Santana's skin rather than inanimate objects, avoiding the underwear and bra in particular with his bare hand. Handing it to Santana without looking her in the eye, he stood awkwardly as she disappeared back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her, and emerged several minutes later, now fully dressed. Even so she brushed pack him without hardly glancing towards him, and he noticed that she too did not sit on the bed, but rather stood near it, crossing her arms over her chest and staring somewhere in the direction of the floor.

It was irrational, part of him knew, but seeing Santana behaving as she was, barely looking at him, going out of her way not to touch or talk to him, stirred within Puck a faint sense of anger, no longer directed simply at the men, but towards her as well. Why did she have to act like this, like he was the enemy, like he had somehow chosen or wanted his actions? Why did she have to make this so uncomfortable, so fucking awkward and even painful, why couldn't she come out wisecracking and shrugging it all off, why couldn't she just try to make this easier for them both?

It wasn't fair to think or feel that way, and he knew it. But it was easier, easier than letting his guilt, his pain over what had happened, what he had had to do, overwhelm him, so Puck let himself feel it, let it reflect in his tone when he finally addressed her.

"You should drink some water," he said, his tone noticeably gruff. "Drink some water and eat another piece of pizza, Santana, no telling how much you dehydrated yourself standing in the shower that friggin' long."

She leaned against the wall, a good twenty to thirty feet away from him, and he suspected this to be deliberate as well. She didn't look towards him, shrugging one shoulder, nor did she look towards the pizza box he was indicating either as she replied.

"I'm not hungry."

She didn't sound angry or sullen in tone, simply subdued, but still it angered Puck, stirring up a strong reaction in spite of himself. She was trying to make him feel bad, he was suddenly sure, she was trying to somehow make this his fault. By watching her not eat, she was going to make him somehow responsible if she starved to death, and how the hell was that fair?

"Eat a piece of pizza and drink some water, Santana," he ordered, his voice carrying even more of an edge than it had before, and now Santana did briefly flit her eyes in his direction, her tone carrying strain as well as she answered him.

"I said I'm not hungry, Puck. What, now I don't have any say or control over my body at all, I don't even get to decide if I'm hungry or when I eat?"

And there it was, at least in Puck's view- she was blaming him, she was making this about him and his decisions, his wronging her, holding a grudge. She was making this to be his choice, putting him on the same side as the actual enemy, and instead of this making him want to apologize, making him want to try to set her at ease and put them back on the same side, it only angered him that much more. He found himself speaking without thought or planning, without any filter between his brain and his mouth, and his tone of voice came out much uglier than he had intended as well as he turned more fully towards her, facing her square on.

"You can't punish me with this shit of yours, Santana. You know damn well I didn't want it to go down like that, you know I didn't want that to happen and you know I didn't have a fucking choice. Don't make that out like I'm some animal who threw you down and fucked you in an alley with you screaming the whole time, which by the way, is probably what would have fucking happened if I hadn't been there with you in the alley that night since you're such a dumbass you just go strolling through there alone all the time like it's a runway on some model show thing or something. You fucking know I didn't want that, Santana, so why the hell are you doing this, why are you trying to make me feel like shit over it? You think I'm not sorry, you think I don't already feel like shit without you going out of your way to make sure I do? What the hell is it gonna help either one of us, you going on some fucked up hunger strike and locking yourself bawling in the bathroom for hours, how the hell is that gonna do anything but make it worse?"

He watched her flinch, expecting her to further hunch in on herself, to further withdraw from him or to turn fully away, shutting him out. He expected her to march right back to the bathroom and slam the door behind her again, as loud as she could make it. But Santana did not meet his expectations. Instead, Santana turned to face him more fully, and even took several steps towards him, with a sudden shift in how she held herself. Her head was up, her walk was strident, even aggressive, her chin held up, and the near deadness of her expression was entirely gone now, replaced with a fire in her eyes and a flush in her cheeks that if not what Puck expected, was what he preferred, maybe even what he had subconsciously hoped to provoke in her. An angry, fierce Santana was infuriating and often offensive, but it was something he could go up against, something he could feel towards and bounce off of. An angry Santana could provoke his anger further, rather than his shame or his guilt. Puck would take an angry Santana any day over the near silent ghost or the weeping mess that she had presented him with before.

"Trust me, Noah, if I wanted to make you feel like shit, I'd pick a more direct way than not eating, I'd let you fucking know if that was my goal in no uncertain terms," Santana nearly spat, taking yet another step closer and jabbing a finger towards his chest, barely missing touching him. "How the hell do you manage to take this and make it all about YOU and how YOU feel and about ME trying to victimize YOU?! What fucking planet do you live on?! In what way, shape, or form could YOU ever be considered MY victim?!"

Puck opened his mouth, ready to respond to that with all defensiveness felt, if not necessarily earned, but Santana wasn't finished. Slashing her hand at him in such a manner that she conveyed she expected him to shut up, immediately, she continued, her voice rising in volume and intensity.

"Who the hell are you to talk about people making you feel bad anyway, Noah Puckerman, who the hell are you to talk about ME making YOU feel like shit?! What the fuck do you think it made me feel like, having you fucking stick it to me in front of the entire Internet world?!"

"Don't even go there, Lopez," Puck warned, his entire body stiffening in response to her words, to her loud, accusing tone. It would have been difficult for her to choose words that would have provoked him further if she were trying…because although they were unfair, they were not entirely untrue. And Puck's own thoughts, his own feelings, could accuse him every bit as loudly and vehemently as Santana could give voice to. He felt his hands ball into fists at his sides, his veins began to stand out in his arms and neck as he spoke to her through gritted teeth, averting his eyes to the wall past her head. "Don't even start that shit. Just stop talking, right now."

"Why, Puck, because you can't handle the truth, the truth hurts?" Santana pressed, her voice still louder. She stepped even closer to him, now nearly backing him up against the wall, almost close enough now that if either of them leaned slightly, their chests would touch. Her eyes were narrowed nearly to slits, her eyebrows slanted downward towards her nose, and she too was balling her fists, every muscle of her body tensed. "Yeah, it does, it hurts a hell of a lot, but you don't care about that as long as we all just ignore it and pretend everything is fine, right? As long as I keep smiling at you and letting you hug up on me like nothing happened, as long as I eat the stupid fucking pizza and make it fucking easy for you, it doesn't matter what's really going on, right? Well here's the actual truth, Puck, because I'm sick as hell of playing out a lie! The truth is that we're stuck down here for however fucking long these bastards want and nothing you or your stupid-ass plans can talk about is going to change that! The truth is that we have to do whatever they want and no stupid deal or promise you make means a thing because they'll break it any time they want, the second they want! The truth is that you just fucked me and now you're trying to act like you didn't get off on it, now you're trying to act like nothing happened and somehow making it out to be all my fault!"

The last straw of it was when Santana gave a shove to his chest, not hard enough to actually hurt or make him move, but it was the gesture in and of itself that made Puck snap. Seizing hold of her wrists, he held her hands over her head, keeping her from being able to hit out at him again. He didn't immediately notice or care that there was now fear as well as anger glinting in her eyes, that her efforts to pull from his grasp were likely hurting her hands and wrists; all he could focus on then was what she had just said to him, the tone of her voice as she said it. The anger flaring through him now, seeming to heat his entire body, was met almost as strongly by the sharp sting of his hurt…because if she really believed that, if she really felt that way…how was he going to handle that, living here with her, when she genuinely felt that way? How could he live with himself?

"Shut the fuck up, Santana," he almost growled, his face close enough to hers that she flinched, as though expecting him to shout or slap her. "Just shut the fuck up, right now, I'm fucking warning you. I did this for YOU, Santana! Every fucking second of it was for you, I did it to try to help YOU, so don't even make this about me, like it was some twisted plan I had going just to fuck you!"

Even as Santana's formerly flushed face grew pale under Puck's hold of her, her lips pressing briefly together as though she were suppressing an emotion that she could not entirely contain but did not want him to see, she kept her chin raised defiantly, not looking away from him. He could see her eyes shimmer damply, and now he did register hints of fear in their surface, but even so she remained grimly determined not to back down.

"Yeah, you were thinking about me and getting some pussy off me, right?"

"Don't you fucking go there, Santana!" Puck shouted, and he shook her arms then, hard enough that Santana gasped, actually shutting her eyes and cringing in expectation of a blow.

It wasn't until that moment that Puck first began to realize what he was doing, that he was holding her, possibly hurting her- and so soon after what had already occurred between them, after already having hurt her as he had. He was already hurting her, scaring her, touching her against her will when he had sworn to himself, in her absence as she showered, that he would do whatever it took, whatever she wanted to try to make her feel safe, even if it meant never touching her again without her permission or the others' orders. It hadn't taken ten minutes of her being back in the room with him, not five minutes of her angering him before he had broken that promise. Sickened with himself, he immediately let her go, sliding to the side to get away from her and backing away from her even further, towards the middle of the room, his voice dropping as he faced her again, still unconsciously clinching his jaw even as he made an effort to address her in a more subdued manner.

"Don't make me out like I'm like them, Santana. Just…just don't."

Although she was now much further away from him, and seemed in no hurry to walk in his direction again, Santana still did not seem willing to entirely back down. Puck watched her cross her arms over her chest, hugging herself, her head briefly dipping down, and for a few moments he thought she would stop talking, maybe even apologize. But then she lifted her head again, looking him in the eye, and spoke again, her voice level, deliberate.

"Aren't you?"

Santana couldn't have chosen two words that would be a harsher blow, couldn't have made him feel any more defeated, doubt himself any further, than Puck did in that moment. Hearing this question, seeing that look in her eyes…if Santana herself considered him no better than the others, in spite of his efforts to prove otherwise, if Santana herself couldn't bring herself to be on his side, how was Puck going to believe it himself?

"Fine," he said finally, the word almost ground out through clinched teeth as he shook his head, averting his eyes from her and partially turning himself away. "You want me not to help you, you want me to leave you be, I'll do it. You want me to me like them, you think I am, San? Totally fine. Here's the new plan, if that's the way you see it. How about this, you fend them off all by yourself, with those scrawny twig arms of yours, the ones I just held off from me without even trying, and I'll just kick back and watch them do whatever the hell they want and I ain't gonna lift a finger to help you out, since I'm just like them. You do everything all by yourself and I ain't gonna say one word about how you're gonna be okay or how I'm not gonna hurt you or any of that shit, 'cause guess what, if I'm just like them then I guess you just ain't gonna be okay and everyone's out to get you, right? If I'm just like them then I guess it's cool if everyone hurts you all they want since why the hell would I care. Don't worry, Santana, I'm sure they'll get bored of you fast if you get sick of the porn noises, they sounded fake enough they're probably gonna slap those right out of you, and then if you lay there like a board the way you did most the way through for me, they'll get sick of that pretty fast too, maybe you'll be lucky and-"

He didn't see the slap coming at him until Santana's hand was already almost touching him, and he heard the crack of her palm against his face before he registered any pain from it. His face flushed and stinging from the contact, he stared at her, briefly stunned, as she backed away from him, her chest heaving, her face an open window to every emotion running through her in that moment. She didn't say anything; if anything, she seemed to be fighting back tears. There was a faint tremor to her arms, her hands open and twitching slightly at her sides, and she licked her lips repeatedly, eyes wide and wet as she continued to stare in Puck's direction. She seemed somehow stunned by her own action as much as she was responding to his words, and when Puck, finally semi trusting himself to have tentative control not to grab her and hit her back, finally spoke, his own voice started out quiet in volume at first.

"I'm not like them, Santana. You can say or think whatever the hell you want, but you gotta know somewhere, somehow, I'm not like them."

She didn't speak, but she did avert her eyes, swallowing so loudly he could hear it, even though she had backed away. As she remained silent, not responding to him verbally, Puck's anger flared again, and he raised his voice, though he stopped himself from taking a step towards her.

"I gave you everything, Santana, I tried! You know I fucking tried! I did everything I could to try to make things okay, and that's working with all the shit you screwed up here in the first place! I made the deal, I could have let it go way worse but I made the deal. I made sure we both got food because you sure as hell would have blown it if it was you they were dealing with up there. I let them beat the shit out of me so they wouldn't do it to you. I've been watching out for you from the start and you're gonna forget that because you feel like shit right now? You think I don't feel like shit too? You think I ain't saying the same shit to myself that you just said right now?"

His voice was getting even louder, even more aggressive in pitch, and he could see the change in Santana's posture, could see that she was hugging herself again, her head lowered, that her face was scrunching up repeatedly with her effort to suppress her feelings from coming out in some manner beyond her control. Puck knew he should probably stop there, that he had made his point. But Santana had never stopped; Santana had not tried to control herself or her mouth, and he too found it nearly impossible now to stop.

"You wanna talk about things being people's fault, Santana, don't forget why the hell we're here. Don't forget you're the one doing something or someone or going somewhere that got these assholes on your tail, whatever the hell you say, you heard them, that Brody dude and how you couldn't keep your nose out of Rachel's business and the fact that you worked as a stripper is the entire reason this happened, and that's all you, that has nothing at all to do with me. You're the one who kept running your mouth and pushing me and pushing me over a jacket I didn't even fucking take because you're too stuck on yourself to bother listening to a word I say even if it's the damn truth, and that's the whole reason we got kicked out of the apartment and were on the streets in the first place. You're the one who went skipping down a dark alley like a dumbass bimbo in a stupid horror movie, and you're the one they were after in the first place, I'm just the dumbass who got stuck coming along for the ride! There's no way in hell you can say this is all my fault more than it is yours, so the fact that I had to fuck you to save your own ass, after you fucking said I could do it, how the hell you gonna say that's my fault too? Trust me, Santana, I'd never choose to fuck you all on my own, never again, even if you were begging for it, so don't you ever say that shit again…just…."

But even as Puck nearly yelled this all, knowing and believing in that moment that every word he said was true, more than justified to be said no matter how much it might hurt or cast blame, he couldn't maintain his anger or his feelings of relative righteousness for wrong. For when he really looked at Santana again, with the fog of his anger towards her beginning to clear, and saw that she was still refusing to look towards him, that the tears standing in her eyes were nearly overflowing and all anger, judgment, and blame that had lit up her features was gone, replaced now with an obvious grief, fear, and even shame that no amount of control on her part could hide, he couldn't truly feel any more anger towards her.

Exhaling, he rubbed his hand over his face, not looking up at her now as he spoke again, his voice quieter, tired in tone. "I tried, San…I fucking tried. If you told me to stop I would have, I swear. I wanted to stop. I was gonna, but then you kissed me and…so I just…I tried to do what you were gonna let me, okay….I tried to do what you said, and you changed up the rules on me, so…I don't know, San. It's just…it's fucked up, I know that. And I'm sorry. I swear, I'm fucking sorry. But it's not my fault we're here, and it's not my fault you're a lesbian and would rather lock yourself in a bathroom and cry yourself to sleep then let me touch you. It's not. My. Fault."

He didn't think for a time that Santana was going to answer him. He expected her to just ignore him, to walk away and sit or stand apart from him pretending he had never spoken. He expected her to possibly go back to the bathroom and shut the door again. But instead, she sucked in a slow, unsteady breath, still facing away from him, and one hand repeatedly ran through her hair, as though to try to give herself comfort, though the gesture was fast enough that it nearly looked like she was attempting to scalp herself.

"How…how dare you blame this on me…it's not my fault," she started, but her voice was shaking badly, no conviction in her tone. "I didn't want this…I didn't ask for this, I didn't mean…it's not…it's not my…"

And then her voice broke, and the tears finally began to stream down her face. Santana covered her mouth with her hands, but a sob escaped her all the same, and the tears ran over her hands, unchecked, even as she shut her eyes, shaking her head.

"It's not…it's not my…"

Another sob, higher and more desperate in pitch, and now Santana abandoned even this effort to protest. Eyes tightly shut, head lowered, tears trickling down her cheeks, she said to the floor, in a barely audible whisper, "I…I know…it's my fault, it's my…I know it's my fault…stop, please stop talking about it, please, I know…I know it's my fault…"

It was what he had been saying for five minutes now, the defense he had thrown at her to deflect off himself. It had sort of been what he wanted, hadn't it, for her to say this, for her to back down…then why did Puck feel now as though he had somehow violated her all over again, just to stand here and listen to her, just to stand here and watch her cry?

Taking another deep breath, Puck swallowed, then rubbed both his hands across his face, still trying to calm himself down. Though he no longer felt any harsher emotions towards her, it was hard to forget her earlier words, the hurt they had inflicted upon him along with anger, and he now didn't know how to respond to her. So far his instincts had proven to be entirely useless, even damaging for them both, so he stood exactly where he was, rubbing at his face, before he made himself look up at her. Her eyes were still closed, and she was not looking at him, barely seemed aware of his presence anymore at all. She looked lost to him then, lost and small and sad in a way that was so unlike the Santana Lopez Puck had been accustomed to only a few weeks ago, before Finn and all the horror of the past few days, that he breathed out heavily through his nose, deeply uncomfortable. Why did she have to look so…so hurt? Why did the girl who had just screamed and hit and pushed him and accused him of wishing her harm, enjoying her pain, of basically being a rapist…why did she have to seem so vulnerable?

And why did he have to still care about her so damn much?

Puck took another slow breath, still trying to determine his own thoughts and feelings and how to respond to them. Then he took a step forward, then another, drawing nearer to her. Santana opened her eyes, lifting them up towards him, but otherwise didn't react to his approach. She was still crying, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs that nevertheless occasionally came out audibly enough for him to hear. She didn't tell him to back away, didn't try to step back herself, but neither did she exactly invite his approach or come towards him herself, so Puck stopped a few feet away from her, exhaling again as he tried to keep his arms loose and relaxed at his sides.

"Okay," he started off, breathing out, then repeated again, "Okay. Look, San…can you listen to me for a second? I'm not gonna yell. Can you…can you try to stop a second and just listen?"

Santana didn't speak to him still, didn't so much as nod. But it looked like her posture had lost just a little bit of the tension that had gripped it so clearly a few minutes ago, and the hands covering her mouth first relaxed their pressure, then slowly drifted down from her face. She started instead to wipe at her face and eyes, attempting to clean herself up the best that she could with only her palms and fingertips, which was, Puck guessed, the best he could expect from her at the moment. He waited a few seconds, giving her some time to try to compose, before continuing.

"Okay. Look, San…we can't do this. Alright? We can't do this shit, we can't say this shit to each other. We can't…we can't yell and call names and do the blame thing, or…lay hands on each other if we don't absolutely got to, or…we just can't do this shit, alright? That's….San, that's what they do. And that's probably what they wanna have us do, you know? Like, drive us crazy, make us try to half kill each other 'cause it makes for hotter angry sex or something. So…let's just not, alright?"

Santana was looking directly at him now, still sniffing occasionally, but she appeared to be mostly calmed down again. Although her cheeks were still wet, her eyes red and too bright in appearance, the tears had stopped, and she was standing straighter now, her arms loosely crossed over her chest. She still hadn't responded to him, but she was definitely watching him now, clearly enough that Puck was encouraged to continue.

"San…we know we can't trust them. That's obvious. You're right on that, okay, we don't know what their real plan is or what they might do, they might change it up at any second and screw us over worse. Literally. But…that's kinda why we can't do that here, right? To each other. You can be pissed as hell at me and I can at you or whatever and we're probably gonna be like, 99% of the time. But we can't be like them to each other…alright? We gotta…San, we gotta be able to do right by each other. 'Cause…I mean what other choice is there, San? You got me here and I got you here and that's it. We sure as fuck can't trust them and we know they ain't gonna look out for us, so we kinda gotta do that for each other…so we can't do this shit anymore. Not saying it's gonna be easy 'cause I'm pretty sure it's gonna be hard as hell. Probably impossible. But we gotta try."

She was definitely listening now. Though she was frowning towards him, her expression was softer, her lips slightly parted as though she were considering words to respond with. Feeling calmer himself now, Puck tried to smile at her, though he felt no inclination to do so naturally.

"San…I'm not gonna leave you. I said it and I mean it. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm sorry I grabbed you or scared you or whatever…it's not gonna happen again. But you gotta help me here. You gotta help me out because I'm…I'm kinda losing it here. I'm gonna do whatever I can to try to get us out, okay, but you gotta help me out, you gotta try to keep your cool and help me keep mine and not be like…us bitching back and forth, right, 'cause that ain't gonna do anything but give them ammo. But…even if you don't, I'm still gonna try. I made you a promise, San. I made you a promise and I'm not gonna let them touch you, okay? No matter matter what."

His voice hardened then, but it wasn't her that his harsher tone was directed at, but rather the situation at large and the people who were holding them in it. He wasn't really looking at her but rather somewhere past her as he continued to speak.

"No matter what, Santana. I don't care how much you yell or scream or cry or cuss me out or hit me or claw my eyes out or what you call me or what you do or how big a bitch you are to me, I'm not gonna leave you and I'm not gonna hurt you and I'm not gonna let them touch you. I'm keeping my damn promise. Whatever it takes."

He breathed out one more time, then took another step towards her, looking her squarely in the eyes. "So let's stop the shit and do this."

The whole time that Puck had been speaking Santana had been listening to him, though she remained quiet, and only occasionally really looked him in the eyes. Now as he waited for her response, she dropped her head again, inhaling slowly. She thinned her lips, her fingers tightening around her upper arms, but when she looked back up at him, her gaze was steady, her words calm, even flat, despite what she was saying.

"Puck…I know…I get it. I do. I know what we should do, and how…it's just…the way things feel and the way they are? They don't always go. And the way I feel…I'm scared. I'm scared shitless, every day, every minute, every second." She paused, swallowing, and some feeling began to creep into her tone as she continued. "Who's out there. Who's coming in. What they'll do and what they'll say and how they'll look at me, if they're going to touch me or hurt me or hurt you or take you away from me or take me away from you. If I'm gonna wake up and you're dead beside me and someone is on top of me, if someone is going to throw me off the bed by my hair or throw me against the wall or rip off my clothes and…I don't know what's going to happen and I don't know who's going to do it or if I'll be able to eat or sleep or even fucking walk tomorrow. I don't know if I'll ever see anyone again or what they think happened or if they even care I'm gone. I'm…Puck, I know…I know it wasn't your fault," those words came out roughly, and she dropped her eyes, biting down on her lower lip and squeezing her upper arms. Puck could see a glint in her eyes that looked like a shimmer of new tears, but she kept control, though her voice was not quite steady. "I know it…but it doesn't feel like it's not. I…I know what I did, to bring you in, and…I'm…I'm sorry. You were going to move on with your life, get out of Lima, and…I dragged you in. I know that. I know."

Watching her, Puck wasn't sure what to say, how to respond to her in the right way, or if there was even anything he could say that would be right at all. He hadn't expected her to apologize. He had been talking for his own sake as much as for hers, to try to ease his own feelings as much as to try to smooth over hers too. But now that he had an apology from her, as profuse of an apology as he had ever heard or could have expected from the likes of Santana, he realized that it didn't make him feel any better. He was no longer angry with her, and as it turned out, he hadn't really wanted or needed her to admit aloud her part in their harshness towards each other, or to feel any regret for it. They had both been at fault, and hearing her state her fault aloud didn't really matter to him anymore at all.

What mattered was what he had just told her…that all of this, the bickering and the resentment, the anger towards each other, the standing on opposite sides…it had to stop. Not just to spare their feelings, not just for any emotional and mental support they could manage to scrape up to provide for each other, but for the practical purpose of knowing that if they did not manage to stay together, they very well could end up in genuine danger. This was not just needed for comfort's sake but for safety's sake, and as unrealistic as it might be to try to go for, they did have to try.

"Well," he muttered back to her, trying to give her a smile, to use a small bit of humor in response to her rather serious words. It seemed the time to try to lighten things up, to at least make her smirk if not smile. "My life wasn't really all that awesome, so I guess I can't mind it getting sorta hijacked again too much. 'Cause even if I was doing the moving on thing I'd probably still manage to screw it up all on my own anyway."

It must not have sounded as light as he had intended, or maybe Santana simply didn't think it was funny, because she didn't smile. Exhaling, Puck took another step towards her, dropping the effort and going back to being serious. "Hey, look, San…what I said before? It wasn't cool." He hesitated, watching her expression, before going on. "It's not…I know it's not really your fault either. Us being here. Not really. And…I'm sorry too. For saying that, and…for doing that to you. I didn't…San, I didn't want to, I swear. I didn't want to, and I didn't like it. You gotta know that…right?"

He waited, almost holding his breath without realizing it, for her response. And when Santana dropped her eyes again, releasing a slow, slightly uneven breath, and then nodded slightly, her eyes still directed towards the floor, he exhaled with more relief than he had even known he needed to feel, the tension he had not realized he was still holding in his body giving way.

"Good…because…I hated it, San. I fucking hated it."

He shook his head, his eyes averting from hers as well, but when he saw that she was lifting her head again, that she had even took one small step towards him before stopping, Puck moved forward two more steps of his own, slowly, but with more confidence in the gesture. He was standing right in front of her now, and after a few more seconds, he reached out, slowly enough that she could back away if she chose, and took hold of her upper arms. Santana let him, not seeming opposed, so he held them gently, even rubbing his thumbs over the ball of her shoulders as he thought back to some of the other things she had said, responding to them as they occurred to him.

"'Tana…it's okay if you're mad and scared, you know? I mean…I am too. It's not like we don't got good reason to be. I mean…I'm scared of the same shit you are. I'm scared they're gonna come in too, I'm scared they're gonna hurt you or do shit to me where I can't keep them from hurting you, or that they're gonna drag you out and…" he stopped himself, pressing his lips into a tight line and turning his head away, his grip momentarily tightening on Santana's arms before he deliberately loosened his hands. "I don't gotta spell it out, you already said, so. But…like I said, I'm scared of that shit too. I know it's supposed to be my job to look out for you, San…you don't gotta say that. I know I fucked it up, but I'm trying."

It was hard to look at Santana then, after having admitted out loud the extent of his failure to her. She herself had spelled it out, and now it was out there, with both acknowledging and admitting. He could try, but his tries so far had not been enough. They hadn't been enough, and she had been hurt, whatever his efforts to keep that from happening. He expected her to make some comment in agreement with this, whether this be snarky or simply factual acknowledgment, and braced himself to take whatever she had to say.

But Santana didn't say it. She didn't say anything at all at first. Instead, she bit her lower lip lightly, looking up at him, then slid her eyes down to Puck's hands, still lightly gripping her arms. He thought at first she wanted him to remove them, and even started to do so, intending to give her space. But then Santana stepped forward, closing in the small space between them, and slowly leaned towards him, resting her forehead against his chest. As her arms slowly came around him, she spoke into his chest, her words quiet, slightly muffled, but sincere.

"Puck…you didn't…you didn't really mess up. It wasn't really your fault either….I know that. I…I know that. You…you were trying to help me. I know that. I know you were trying to…to save me. It just…it's hard to feel like that…you know?"

To say he was surprised by this action from her would have been something of an understatement. For a moment or two Puck just blinked down at her, not returning the embrace, half expecting her to suddenly pull back and smack him instead. But Santana remained where she was, and if anything seemed to be hugging him a little tighter, so after another few seconds he slowly wrapped his arms around her back as well, completing the embrace loosely. He was careful to avoid hugging her too hard, remaining aware of any changes that might occur in her body to indicate she wanted to let go, but Santana held on, and so Puck did too, lightly pressing one hand against the small of her back, the other splaying between her shoulder blades. He exhaled, his jaw flexing as he finally answered her back.

"Didn't do anything wrong? That really coming out the mouth of Santana Lopez, talking about Noah Puckerman? You sure you not delirious, San?"

He tried to smile, to pass off his words as light in tone, but somehow they came out more serious than he had intended. A muscle jerked in his jaw, and his voice dropped to a mutter, gruffer than he had wanted it to be as he stared towards the wall over Santana's head, his hands exerting slightly more pressure against her back.

"Saved you," he mumbled, more to himself than to Santana as he shook his head again. "Yeah. That's me…savior. Fucking savior. That's why you acted like I was gonna throw you down for a second go the minute the cameras were turned off…that's why you would rather lock yourself in the bathroom and cry all day than look at me. 'Cause I saved you…'cause I'm a fucking savior."

He felt Santana stiffen against him and prepared himself for her to pull back, for her to withdraw as though being reminded of her own feelings from his words. But although she loosened her grip, she kept her arms around him, only tilting her head up to look him in the eyes before she spoke. Her gaze was firm and sure, even somewhat irritable as she shook her head at him, her voice every bit as serious as his, intent- even authoritative.

"Puck? Shut up."

When he blinked, opening his mouth to respond, she shook her head at him, even briefly and lightly tapping her fingertips against his lips. "No. You said let's stop the bullshit, so…let's stop the bullshit. You're right. If we're gonna do this we're gonna do this right, and if we're gonna try to stop bitching out each other you can't bitch out yourself either."

She paused, and then one hand slid from his mid back to his shoulder, squeezing lightly even as her eyes continued to bore into his, searching, though for what, Puck could not guess. "So we're done with that…the blame thing. Let's leave it at we're both awesome and we both suck and just move on from there…okay?"

Puck chuckled, an open, genuine smile coming over his lips at her words. She had simplified things considerably with her blunt phrasing as only Santana could do, and she was not incorrect. He nodded, eyebrows raised more in good humored acknowledgement than in any surprise.

"Sounds good to me. Let's go with that then."

Briefly looking her up and down, checking her expression, he tightened his arms around her a little in another hug, keeping it loose and gentle, though it seemed that she was currently okay with physical contact with him. Santana didn't seem to mind; in fact, she seemed to welcome the affection, even leaning into him more fully as her own arms tightened around him. She turned her face back into his chest, and he could feel her breathing out through her nose against him, her small hands pressing into his back before she spoke, her words quiet and not entirely clearly from where her face was pushing into his chest.

"Sounds corny and lame or whatever, and I ain't one to join the feel good sappy train, but I guess if it's true it's true, so I'll say it. Only it's one of those one time declarations you don't get to repeat," she warned, giving a faint laugh against him, and Puck felt his skin warm involuntarily. He absently rubbed his fingertips back and forth between her shoulder blades, waiting for this announcement of hers, and felt her settle a little more heavily into him as she continued.

"The whole Glee club thing…what they say all the time with those bright shiny eyes and earnest Disney channel expressions that could make you puke if you look too long...about us being family. It's true. We are, sorta. Might be in a dysfunctional, totally incestuous, my stepmother is a budding serial killer kind of way, but it's still sort of true. So we can do the fight thing and the ass kicking and hair pulling thing, and we can hate each other and want to pull each other's hair out and all that because families do that shit. But I guess we have to kind of overlook bullshit and bitching from each other sometimes and get to killing people for each other instead or something like that."

She lifted her head a little, giving him a small smirk, and Puck laughed more fully now. Giving her another squeeze, he kissed the top of her head, then loosened his hold a little.

"Hey, there's our girl. Preach."

For another minute or so they remained standing together, arms still loosely draped around each other, Santana leaning into Puck's chest. But after some time of this relative peace together, this beginnings of a truce or reinstated understanding, Santana breathed out with sudden loudness, and the unevenness of it seemed to hold an emotion she was not stating. Back her face went into his chest, hiding her expression from him now, and he felt a new tension in her body again, knew before she spoke that something in her thoughts had drawn her back to a darker emotional place again.

"Puck…I can't believe this is happening."Puck sucked in his breath, his heart squeezing in response to her. Her voice had gone quiet again, her tone harboring pain that clearly resonated in her voice, and he felt her fingers tighten around the back of his shirt, squeezing the fabric as she continued to breathe out slowly, shakily against him. She was trying so hard to be okay then, trying to be as positive and focused as she had just said herself that they needed to be, and yet it was clearly so hard for her that she was almost shaking with the effort of doing so. It almost hurt to watch her, to feel her inner struggle in every part of her body touching his, and as Puck began to stroke one hand through her hair, seeking to soothe, he felt so entirely helpless as to how to really help her in any meaningful or lasting way that he didn't speak at first, and when he tried, he knew his words were falling flat.

"Yeah…it's gonna be okay though, 'Tana. I promised you."

But Santana was not a person to take a promise in stride. She shook her head against his chest, her hands letting go of his shirt and instead pressing flat against his back as she countered his words.

"But it's not okay, Puck. It's not. It's not…it isn't supposed to be like this. This isn't…it's not who I am, it's not what's supposed to happen to me…it's not supposed to be my life."

Santana's voice was getting tighter and more agitated with every added sentence. Puck could feel her heart racing against him and paused his hand in her hair, looking down at her with his brow furrowing in growing concern as she kept talking until she was working herself into a state that was nearly hyperventilation.

"I'm supposed to be doing big things now…I'm supposed to be getting famous and doing these huge awesome things in New York fucking City, and I can't even get a decent job, I can't do anything and go anywhere like I'm supposed to be, and now this, this isn't how it's supposed to be at all! I had enough shit in high school, it's supposed to be better now, it's supposed to be no more of any of that, not like this…this isn't…this isn't…"

"Hey, hey," Puck tried when she finally trailed off, gulping, and he could feel her sniffling against his shirt. Rubbing her back in slow circles, he kissed the top of her head, more aware than ever of how little he was really helping her, how little she could really do. "San…I know it's bad, but we can't think like that now or we're gonna go crazy. We gotta do what we gotta do right now, okay?"

He kissed the top of her head again, continuing to rub her back, but she was not calming down. If anything he could feel her tears now beginning to seep through his shirt, her shoulders silently shaking beneath his hands as she spoke again, her voice audibly choked up now.

"I had…I just had sex with you…with everyone in the world watching. They're all…they were right there watching and…now every time those men come in…they're gonna be looking at me, and, and listening to me say that shit, hearing it all over again, and-and…they're going to be knowing what I look like and, and thinking of being with me, and wanting it…"

Puck tightened his arms around her, clinching his jaw until he heard his teeth grind together, trying desperately to keep from blurting out all the swears building inside him, the curses and screams he wanted to badly to direct towards the very men Santana was talking about. Not just the ones keeping them here, but every single man who had paid to watch, every man who were going to be able to remember and access them both for as long or often as they wanted. And even as he thought this Santana was saying it, giving voice to his own concerns.

"They'll be watching this the rest of my life, anyone who wants to, and they'll see it and think…they'll see it and know…oh god…" for a few seconds she sobbed into his chest, her nails digging into his back, and then she managed, "Puck…when we were doing that…I felt…I felt like I was dying…I still do."

Santana was not trying to hurt him or accuse him. She wasn't trying, but Puck nevertheless felt intensely guilty just for existing there with her, for being part of the cause of her suffering. How could she feel that way, as a direct result of something he had done, and still be at all okay with him being near her, let alone touching her?

Swallowing hard, he tried to pull away from her then, muttering a not quite clear apology under his breath. But Santana lifted her head then and took hold of his arms, shaking her head as she pushed them back down to his side. Wrapping her arms back around him, though more loosely than before, she tilted a still teary face up towards him, shaking her head again as she pleaded with him, both with her eyes and her words, not to pull back.

"No, no, Puck, please, don't…don't…I want…will you stay? Please?"

He couldn't have said no to that, no matter how much he felt that he wanted to, how much sense it seemed to make that he should. He couldn't deny something she seemed to genuinely want, so he slowly put his arms back around her, laying a tentative hand against her back.

"Okay. Yeah, if you want, 'Tana…okay."

She leaned back into his chest again, now turning her head so her cheek was against him rather than her face. Exhaling aloud, she seemed to slowly, deliberately relax her body against him as Puck rubbed his hand up and down the length of her arm.

"It feels better," she murmured, not clarifying what she meant, but Puck guessed she meant being close to him, being held by him, when she felt so bad. He didn't say anything; there didn't seem to be a response that wouldn't sound stupid. He just held her as she seemed to want, slowly rubbing her arm, and noticed when she closed her eyes, relaxing that much more. When she spoke a minute or two later, her voice was soft, and she kept her eyes closed.

"Puck…I know I said shit, and I sort of felt like it was true, but…it wasn't. About you, I mean. Liking it, what we did, or being like them. I know you tried. Saying things to me and…and holding my hand, and going slow…I know you tried to make it better. And you doing that…it's how I got through. It's how I survived it." She paused, one hand lightly squeezing his side before she continued. "So…when we…when we have to again…please do that for me again…okay?"

He couldn't have told her, couldn't have let her see it, but hearing her quiet request and the fragility in her tone, feeling her mold her body into his as though she never wanted to let go or have him let go, Puck was moved. He felt his throat choke, and he swallowed, trying to force down the obstructed feeling he was gaining as he searched for still more useless and ultimately meaningless words. He wouldn't let himself do it, couldn't let himself cry, though, not just for his own pride's sake, but for Santana. She was telling him that it had helped her, when he had been strong for her, guiding her through, and that meant to Puck that he could never falter from doing so.

"Of course," he managed finally, briefly tightening his embrace of her, planting another kiss in her hair and squeezing her shoulder. "Of course I will, 'Tana. Always."

He barely heard her whispered thank you. He was still searching for words to say to reassure Santana further, to lighten the very heavy mood between them. Finally an idea came to him, and he blurted it out with hopeful eagerness, without bothering to think through it first.

"Hey, look at it like this, 'Tana. This is nothing new for you, not really, 'cause remember last year? Brittany posted that sex tape of you online and people already saw it, they already know what you look like naked and having sex and stuff! And things were still cool. Well, until now, but they were. And you stripped before, so you're used to people looking at you naked thinking you're hot and stuff. So…yeah. It's not different, right? You could always just pretending I'm Brittany with a strap on or something. You're still into her, right, so…yeah."

He was genuinely trying to help Santana out, cheer her up and give her suggestions to work with, but when Santana lifted her head from his chest and met his eyes, staring at him with her mouth slightly open, both eyebrows raised high, it became quickly obvious that maybe his thoughts hadn't been quite as genius as they had seemed in the moment they occurred to him. For a second or two he thought Santana was going to hit him or at least yell at him, but then her shoulders relaxed, and she just shook her head, smirking, and even gave a tired chuckle.

"Yeah, thanks but no thanks, Puckerman. Damn, you really know how to make a girl forget her troubles, huh?"

She chuckled again, even dryer this time, and leaned her head back into him, the sarcasm gone as she responded to his question.

"I'm always gonna be into Britt, Puck. But I ain't gonna use her to get through this shit. That would be just…way too weird and disturbing. And anyway she's off with Trouty Mouth Bieber Face, so…"

She rolled her eyes, muttering to herself more than to Puck, "They need to both stop having friggin' relationship ADHD, is all I gotta say about that."

"Yeah, kinda figured you weren't too thrilled about the guy, 'cause every time you say his name your eyes are open about, a sixteenth of an inch and your mouth twists up like you're eating a whole bag of Warheads," Puck noted, smiling slightly in spite of himself. As Santana rolled her eyes again, tensing up a little, he thought it seemed she was preparing to pull away from him, so he quickly changed the topic of his teasing from her to the object of her irritation. "Never did get why you chicks were all so into the dude. I like him or whatever but he kinda looks like MaucaleyCulkin, you notice that? So not sexy."

He had hoped this would get a smile from Santana, at least, but she actually broke out into a genuine laugh, her eyes lightening, all her features loosening up as she smiled at him. Glad to see her respond like this, and feeling much better himself now than he had merely half an hour ago, Puck ruffled her hair, smiling back at her.

"Hey, 'Tana, it doesn't look like they're planning on coming back tonight, so…let's take some time just to chill out, okay? Sit down or lay down or whatever, and just rest up. 'Cause tomorrow we're gonna learn their rules, whatever shit they want us to do, and then we're gonna follow them, right…long enough that they figure we're always gonna. And then we're gonna know exactly what we gotta do to break them. Okay?"

She nodded, and as though on cue, stifled a yawn into his chest, the arm wrapped around Puck's back splaying its fingers wide as she slowly let go of him and stepped back from his arms. Even within the first few seconds Puck realized to his own surprise that he missed her being so close, but he said nothing- how the hell would he say that, and especially to Santana?

"Yeah, I could definitely use some sleep," Santana responded, to which Puck smirked, looking her up and down with a teasing judgment.

"Yeah, I can tell."

Her mouth dropping in mostly mocked shock, Santana hit him in the chest, attempting a scowl, but Puck could tell that she was really trying not to smile. "Shut up, it's not like you're looking like Mr. Movie Star. The bags under your eyes could carry the groceries of sixteen Catholic families."

Puck smiled back at her, tempted then to reach out to ruffle her hair again. It seemed natural in the moment to touch her and play with her in a way that it had so rarely been before, the past several days or even within the past few years. But he kept his hands to himself, instead nodding towards the bed.

"Where you wanna go, 'Tana? We can sit on the floor, or get on the bed, or…just whatever you want."

He had a feeling that Santana would not choose to get back on the bed, given what had last taken place in it. He himself was a little leery about doing so, especially without being able to strip the sheets. But Santana's eyes slid to the bed, and after one slow breath in, she nodded towards it.

"Bed. Kind of want to lay down and a concrete floor sucks for that. But…Puck, can you…"

She paused, seeming to have difficulty wording her request, so Puck attempted to fill in the blanks with his own guess.

"Not touch you? Yeah, I can do that, it's cool. Don't worry."

But Santana was shaking her head quickly.

"No…I do. Want you to. So…can you…"

Again she stopped, still seeming to either not want or not know how to ask for what she wanted. So Puck, brow faintly furrowed now, tried again to fill in the blanks.

"You….what, you want me to hug you or something?"

Santana didn't meet his eyes, her cheeks noticeably flushed when she nodded, but her voice was firm.

"Yeah, Puck, duh. Catch a clue, why don't you?"

And so Puck, smiling as much in response to her sarcasm as to the request itself, lay down, leaving space for Santana to join him. And when she lay down next to him, scooting backward so her back pressed curled into his chest, he anchored his arm loosely around her waist, holding her as she had requested.


	11. Chapter 11

"Did you ever love any of them?"

Puck lifted his head, somewhat startled, and attempted to look down into Santana's face in response to her question. The two of them had been quiet for several minutes now, simply lying on the bed together, with Santana's back to Puck's chest, his arm still curled around her waist, one hand lightly splayed over her hip to cup her body back towards his. He had been attempting to let his thoughts stir until he had none at all, to simply let himself genuinely relax both in mind and body, and he had almost managed to achieve it. Within the past few minutes he had felt Santana's body gradually relaxing back into his, her muscles loosening under his touch until he was sure that she was actually falling asleep. He had listened to the sound of her breathing, tried to ignore the tickle of her hair brushing his upper arms and occasionally his chin, and for those few minutes, he could almost convince himself that they were in fact somewhere else, under different circumstances. He could almost believe that they had chosen their current positioning not out of a dire need for comfort and a lack of no other available resources, but rather simply because they had chosen it out of nothing else but desire to do so.

Almost. But then Santana spoke up, breaking the near dreaminess of the moment, and Puck was abruptly brought back to reality again. The thing was, he had no idea what it was she was really asking or why as he frowned down at her faintly, still not quite able to see her face.

"Huh? Love who?"

"The other girls," she clarified, and now she was turning her head back towards him, shifting herself slightly in his arms so she was now partly turned towards him. "The ones you dated or made out with or screwed or whatever you want to call it. Quinn and Zizes and whoever else. Shelby. Was just wondering…did you ever really love any of them?"

It was a strange question with a strange timing to it, and had this been a different situation with a different girl, Puck would have immediately come to the conclusion that Santana was jealous, fishing for reassurance that she was the only girl he had ever really been into or ever really loved. But this was Santana, and this was hardly usual circumstances, so Puck simply responded without trying to overanalyze the question's prompting.

"Don't know, really. I guess I sorta loved Lauren, or I thought I did. She was cool and stuff, but I haven't thought about her too much last couple of years, so. Don't know, maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Quinn, same thing, sorta. She's gonna always have a piece, you know? What with the Beth thing. And she's hot and cool and stuff in her crazy Quinn kinda way, but the whole romantic fireworks thing ain't there and never's gonna be. She's sort of like…one of those I'd kinda fall back with but know the whole time she's gonna dart off and do her crazy Quinn thing again five minutes later, or something. But she's always gonna be one of my girls even if it ain't the Romeo and Juliet sort of thing. And Shelby…don't know, I was into her and all, but I don't think it was a love thing. Don't think any of it ever was, really, not the kind people gush about in songs or whatever anyway."

Puck shrugged as he considered this, as much for himself now as for Santana, lifting his hand off her hip briefly as he spoke. "Probably never gonna have the cupid song thing. I'm not even sure I really want all that 'cause it sounds like a lot of trouble and not much gain. So you can be my guard on that one, Lopez. Just shoot me if I turn into Kurt and Blaine. Not the gay thing," he added hastily when Santana made a noise of irritation and started to lift her head further off him to look up at him. "The lame, sappy, can't keep my hands and tongue off you 'cause I'm making googly eyes thing. That."

Santana rolled her eyes, still attempting to scowl at him, but he could see her smile flickering through it and knew she wasn't really angry or annoyed. She settled back down against him again, and for a few more minutes they fell back into silence. But now Puck could feel a difference in it from before, a new tautness to her muscles, and he knew before she chose to speak aloud that something was on her mind.

"I loved Brittany….I still do."

Her voice was quiet, controlled, but somehow so steeped in sadness even without any overt showing of emotion from her that Puck had to swallow, unsure of how to respond to her. After a few seconds he simply rubbed his hand up her arm, replying in a similarly quiet tone.

"I know."

He felt Santana take a deep breath in, the action noticeably moving her back against him, and he squeezed her shoulder, waiting. It seemed that more words were coming, and he was proven right when she spoke again after another minute or two.

"Puck…I don't ever want her to know that this happened."

It wasn't immediately clear to him what Santana was talking about, so he looked down at their physical proximity to each other, raising an eyebrow, though Santana, her face facing away from him, could not see it. "What, this?You asking me to hug up on you? You want me to move or something?"

"No," Santana shook her head, hitting his mouth with some of her hair, and Puck noticed how quickly she responded, how decisively she shook her head- and how weirdly relieved he was by this denial. "No, you can stay, stop being lame. Not this…" she swallowed then, her voice considerably more strained when she continued. "The other else. Any of it, all of it…I just…I don't want her to know."

It was still unclear to Puck what it was she was talking about. He could assume the sex, of course, that she didn't want Brittany to know about that. But by all of it, did she mean as well the bickering, the starving, the men? The basement, the kidnapping- every single bit of it?

That didn't seem possible. If they were going to escape- and more than anything, Puck wanted to make certain that they would both escape and be okay- then that would mean that they would see their friends and family again. Obviously Kurt and Rachel would be freaking out by this point, thinking probably that he and Santana had killed each other out in some alley instead of the reality of the situation- so surely they would have contacted the police and their parents and everyone else in Glee right now, telling them what was going on. Which was comforting on one hand. If everyone knew by now that they were missing- and with Rachel and Kurt and their tendency to worry even in the best of times, surely this would be at least statewide news by now if they had anything to do with it- then the chance of someone rescuing them, if they couldn't escape, was very good. But on the other hand, that would mean that when they managed to return to their friends, everyone would want to know exactly what had happened. It was highly unlikely that they could keep any real secrets from their friends and family.

These were facts and details that Puck had never considered, and he takes a considerable amount of time to answer Santana as a result. But eventually he does respond, using not the facts he is sure of, but the answer that Santana seems to want.

"Sure thing, 'Tana. Britt don't have to know whatever you don't want her to."

He felt Santana nod faintly, breathing out again, and it seemed that she was relaxing again, or at least trying to. Puck didn't expect her to shift the conversation back to its original topic, nor to have been thinking about him or what he had said anymore, but after another few seconds she addressed him again, doing exactly that.

"You know those girls didn't match up with you right anyway. I mean, Q doesn't know whether or not she wants to eat dinner, let alone what she wants in a dude, or even if she wants a dude or a chick, some days. Lauren would rather eat a tub of Snickers bars than go out doing something with you, and Shelby is awesome but also old enough to have been a Woodstock toddler. And none of them loved you. You're probably right though…long as you show up to girls acting like some cartoon character dick, then you're never gonna really love anyone or have them love you. But you could, if you wanted to. You sure you really don't? 'Cause I used to say that…but once you have it…it's really cool. It's…it's all you can think about, when it's gone."

Puck looked down at her, holding a strand of her hair absently between his fingertips. He couldn't deny that he was surprised by her, by how serious and sincere she sounded- especially considering that they were talking about him. Not just him, but his future, his love life, even his worth as a person. He attempted to process this with equal seriousness, but quickly gave up- it was way too much for one day to try to work through this too.

"Pretty sure, Lopez," he responded eventually, giving her a small smile. "I'll let you know if I change my mind though, 'kay? Just in case you're gearing up to get in line or something."

"Right," Santana rolled her eyes at him, but she was smiling too, even leaning her head into his hand. "Thanks but no thanks. I already have my girlfriend plus the girl that got away, you really think I'd complicate it up with dabbling in the penis ways again? Especially if that penis happens to be yours?"

Although the words could be taken to be an insult, Puck could hear the smile in her voice and took it as simply affectionate teasing. He smirked back down at her, running his fingers through her hair and noting when she half closed her eyes in response, her smile softening at the continued gentle attentions.

"So that's where you've been, was starting to worry. See, your bitch persona flickered there for a second and I was 'bout to start checking you had a fever or something. Better watch out, next time you might get stuck that way and then how am I gonna recognize you?"

Santana laughed, and then to his continued faint surprise, wrapped her free arm around Puck's waist, hugging him tighter. Puck smiled, hugging her back, but he noted when her arms loosened again, her breath releasing in a slow exhale as she shifted her eyes up to his, searching his expression. He could see the darker feeling now coming over her gaze, and he braced himself, knowing that whatever she was thinking or about to say, it would darken the mood they had only now managed to lighten at all since they had first been put in their current position. He wasn't eager to sink back into a more serious mood, but Santana couldn't seem to maintain their previous levity, so he waited, knowing that sooner rather than later, she would give voice to her thoughts.

"Puck," she said after a few more moments, her voice quiet, even as her hand slowly tightened around his forearm. "They're gonna make us do it again…aren't they."

There was no answer here that was possible except the truth, but Puck was reluctant to say it aloud, to give voice to what they both already knew was almost certainly inevitable. They both knew, and yet to say it aloud would somehow transcend the fragile calm they had managed to forge together. They both knew, and yet it was so hard, almost impossible for him to say the words aloud, to somehow make it that much more real to them both.

"Yeah, San…they're gonna," he said quietly, looking her in the eye, as much as it hurt to do that, to see the fear so clearly shining out at him from them. "Yeah.I think so."

He thought that she would push him away then, that she would curl away from him and ask to be left alone. He would have figured she would decide then that she'd had more than enough touching from him, that he was now invading her comfort level by even being near. But Santana did nothing of the sort. Instead she released a shuddering breath, then leaned her head down onto his shoulder, adjusting her grip around his waist until she was slowly settling back into him again, in what could only have been described as a cuddle.

"Then…we have to make it okay," she said quietly, but with a determination that made Puck's heart squeeze in response to her. "If it has to happen, and we know it, then…we just have to make it okay. I have to be ready, and you, and…then we'll just make it okay. We'll give them whatever the fuck they want and…we'll just make it okay."

Eyes holding his, almost pleading then, she asked him in a softer tone, "Puck…when we have to…make it like before. The things you were doing, and saying…how you were trying to…please do that again."

It wasn't a question she needed to ask of him. Puck couldn't have done anything else and still lived with himself the next morning.

Squeezing her arm lightly, he nods, swallowing with sudden difficulty. "Yeah. Yeah, Tana…always."

And as they lay together, Santana relaxing marginally after having received this confirmation, Puck found his thoughts remaining focused on her request, unable to quite shake it. She was asking him to make things okay for her, when boiled down to the most basic level of her words, but the problem was that he couldn't do it, no matter how much he might want to, no matter how much he tried. He could make things easier for her, he could make things less painful, but nothing within his power, whatever his earnest desires or efforts, could really make it okay.

Puck had never thought of Santana as the type of girl to want to do the cuddle and conversation routine, at least if her after-sex behavior with him had been anything to go by. But it didn't take five minutes of quiet after their conversation had died down, of simply lying with him, arm around his waist, head against his chest, before she shifted herself, seeming restless, or maybe even bored. Or maybe it was simply that the silence had grown to be too much for her, allowing too much time for too dark or serious thought which could not be translated into any viable actions. Whatever the case, and Puck didn't take the time to consider it, she soon interrupted their reverie, lifting her head off his chest to look at him as she gave his shoulder a little shove.

"You can't go to sleep, lazy-ass," she announced, giving his foot a little kick with hers as well. "I don't feel like sleeping and it's probably like, two pm anyway."

"Yeah? How you gonna keep me all stimulated then?" Puck asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking down at her with deliberately insinuative tone. It was something of a risk, given their proximity and how recently she had been upset with him even looking at her or touching her, but he had a feeling that Santana would take the comment as the joke it was intended to be.

She hit him again, his chest this time, but she was rolling her eyes in a good-humored way, lips quirked into a responding playful grimace as she wiggled herself slightly apart from him, enough to be able to look at him easily, while still keeping in physical contact with him. "Don't get your hopes up, Fuckerman. I know it's a stretch for you and all, but we're just gonna talk. It's not like there's much else around here to do and now that I think about it, there's a lot of shit I don't know and didn't bother to ask about you 'cause I didn't really care all that much, but I guess since the alternative now is to sit here and stare at the wall, I don't mind playing 20 question catch up. So shoot, tell me all about how you spent the last year writing crappy rap songs worshiping my hot bod and pathetic ballads about how much you missed me once I was gone. If you feel the overwhelming urge to perform them too, feel free, I'm all ears."

Puck rolled his eyes at her, scoffing with a skeptical noise emerging from his throat. Regardless he tried not to smile, privately relieved to see Santana continuing to show some of her old snark. He was glad as well to observe that she was curling into him still, keeping physically close. It indicated to him that whatever she did or said, or what kind of comments she made, she did still trust him, deep down; she did feel safe with him, even if she hadn't in the immediate aftermath of what they had been made to do. She did know and even acknowledge that he would not willingly harm her, and the fact that she would stay close to him and joke with him about how much he wanted her, no longer with any malice behind the words, helped him feel a hell of a lot better about things than anything she could have said with her words would have.

"Think I can contain myself. What you wanting to know, Lopez?" he asked.

He expected some sort of invasive personal question about his sex life or his string of girls, or even of his supposedly wild and crazy time traveling around L.A. after high school- not that it had ever gotten quite as wild and crazy as Puck had wanted it to be or made it out to be. He expected a question that would be easy enough to answer lightly or blow off entirely. But Santana surprised him, as she had so many times already on this day alone. Looking him directly in the eyes, her expression genuine, serious, she lightly squeezed her hand against his side as she asked him.

"Puck…are you still lost?"

When he frowned, confused by her meaning or the intent behind her question, she clarified quickly, "Going to LA like you did…traveling all over the place and not really getting anything out of it from what I heard, anyway. Community college, dating Kitty friggin' Wilde…it doesn't sound like you know what the hell you want or what you're doing. I'm not being a bitch over it, I'm just calling it how it is or how it looks anyway. So…this Air Force thing you were gonna do, or that you're still gonna, once we're out…is that more of this? Searching, and trying to get found or find yourself or whatever stupid English poet thing we do? Or do you think it's real…is that what you really want? Who you want to be?"

It was a good question, a fair question- and one that Puck had not been asked before, at least not in such a direct manner. It was something he'd asked himself repeatedly over the past year, something he was in some ways still asking himself to this day, even this hour. Who was Noah Puckerman, really…and who was it that he wanted to be? What did he want from his life, from his future…from himself?

To this day, he didn't know, couldn't be sure except in the most vague of terms. But as Puck considered this, idly twining his fingers through Santana's hair and smiling slightly to himself at her clearly pleasurable response to it when she half closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, tilting her head back, he answered honestly, if tentatively.

"Don't know, 'Tana. It might be…might be more of the search thing. I thought about it, you know, just can't really know for real until I'm there." He paused, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger, and then tugged it lightly, smoothing a strand between his thumb and index finger. There was something about the feel of women's hair that Puck had always enjoyed, ironically enough, given how little he himself usually had. Female hair was softer and smoother than his own, and it usually smelled good too. Bonus was that they seemed to like you touching it as a general rule, unless they had a weave, and even took it as a romantic gesture, so all around, long hair on women plus touching it seemed a definite bonus.

"I don't really know what I want," Puck admitted after a few more minutes, waiting until he saw Santana close her eyes against his touch before he took the plunge to continue in more depth with his words. "I don't know if I can even do this thing and stick it out, or if I'm gonna screw it up like everything else I ever tried just about. It's just…Finn always wanted this. More for his dad than him, to try to kinda make up for what happened to him, the discharge and him dying and all that. He wanted to do it for him, his dad, kinda…live it out for him, or make up for it, or whatever. But he never got to do that like he wanted, and he never got his dad the honorable discharge status thing either, so…I don't know, San. It's for me, this Air Force thing, 'cause I didn't know what else to do anymore, really…but it's sorta for him too. Not to copy Finn, but…to do it for him. 'Cause he can't now."

Santana's eyes were open now, and she was looking at him with a soft, faint smile, her head tilted towards him as though she were listening closely. Something about her looking at him so gently, even sympathetically, in a manner that Puck was very much not used to seeing from her, at least not directed towards him rather than Brittany or someone else under that very limited category, was a little uncomfortable for him, but not enough so for him to avert his eyes or pull back from her. She was still regarding him, seeming to be thinking about his words when she responded.

"I think you'll do it," she said quietly, and the sincerity in her tone made Puck swallow, still somewhat uncomfortable, but also gratified. For Santana to tell him that she had faith in him, in a manner of speaking, was so strange and rare that he had no other option but to take it very seriously. "This could be it for you, Puck. New places, new people, actually knowing what's gonna happen when you wake up every morning and what you gotta do. So once we get out of here and you do whatever you have to so you can get back on board…I think it could work for you. Not just for…for Finn," she swallowed against the name, seeming to have difficulty speaking it aloud, but pressed on nonetheless, still holding Puck's eyes. "But for you."

She hesitated, then said with continued quiet genuineness, "I'm sort of proud of you for this, you know. All of us are."

Puck's eyes opened wider at this last response, and he had no presence of mind to respond with a thank you or any other gesture of appreciation for these still more rare sentiments from her. Instead, he gave a faintly disbelieving chuckle, his hand stilling against her hair as he asked, "Starting to wonder if those tranquilizer things messed up your head, Lopez, 'cause I think I just heard you say you're proud of me and I know that can't be right. Gotta be either your head or mind that started hearing things."

Santana rolled her eyes, exhaling with loud exasperation, but she didn't seem to be actually annoyed; she was in fact smiling, even as she pushed at his chest with one hand. "Oh, excuse me for actually playing nice for a second. I forgot that it's terrifying and confusing, so let me jump right back on Snixx express to make your life easier and less puzzling again, I knows you missed that bitch."

Puck smirked back at her, tugging at her hair, but when she settled back into him again, her head coming to rest just under his chin, he grew more serious, looking down at her. She had asked him a serious question, and now his thoughts turned in the same direction in regards to her.

"What about you, San? Seems like you're doing the searching thing too. You go to school in Kentucky, like that's really any better than Lima, then you drop out first semester and go live with the Broadway twins…I'm still trying to figure out how you came up with that one. Then you're stripping, then you're waitressing, and taking dance classes too, and that friggin' hilarious commercial, and…what are you doing, San?" he asked her, genuinely wondering if she herself knew. "Back in high school you were always going on about education and being famous, so…I know those two things kinda don't go together all the time but it's like you didn't pick which one yet. You gonna go back to school, or do some more commercial stuff or act or what? What do you want?"

He watched Santana's eyes darken over with though, her arm tightening slightly around his waist as she seemed to sink within herself, maybe in thought, maybe simply because she was wanting to avoid him seeing any potential answers in her expression. Puck waited, knowing somehow that her answer would come, and when it did, slow and uncertain as it was, he knew she had truly considered her response.

"You're right…I'm lost," she admitted, her tone soft, but carrying an edge of simultaneous wistfulness and faint bitterness all the same that he didn't miss hearing. "I don't know what I want either. I know I want to be heard and seen, but I don't know if that's as a dancer or an actress or a singer or a friggin' millionaire reality star. It sure as hell ain't as a stripper or a waitress, but…you gotta make money somewhere, and one gave me the chance to dance and the other gave me the chance to sing, so…sorta didn't realize that they would suck as much as they do, and that no one would actually watch or listen or care about anything except looking at my tits or bitching me out over cold French fries. Sometimes it doesn't seem to matter what I do 'cause whatever I want, I'm not gonna be good enough for it. I'm hot and awesome, and I can sing and dance…but only by Lima standards. No one is gonna pick me out of a crowd of thousands, or probably even hundreds. So I don't know," she admitted, her voice dropping lower still. "I can see my dream but not the details. And it probably doesn't matter anyway, 'cause it's always someone else who has to choose to make it your reality."

Listening to Santana, Puck's forehead furrowed in silent concern, and he began to ghost his fingertips over her back as she spoke, giving only faint pressure as he concentrated on her confession. He wanted to reassure her, to give her the hope and faith that she had tried to give him, and to let her know how truly ridiculous he felt her fears to be.

It seemed so wrong and strange to hear Santana Lopez, of all people, fearing that she wasn't enough. Santana Lopez, admitting that she doubted herself, that she felt inferior, that she didn't feel herself to be the larger than life badass that she wanted everyone to believe her to be. It seemed wrong, and yet it was so clearly true and affecting her so deeply that Puck couldn't have tried to make jokes about it or shrug it off, even to try to lighten the moment. He couldn't, because he could identify all too well and knew just how deeply her feelings really did hurt.

The only problem was that as seriously as he was taking her words, as serious as he knew her concerns to be, Puck also couldn't deny to himself how he was being affected physically, the more time passed, by being in his current situation with her. Lying so close to Santana, with her arms so tightly around him, her head against his chest, feeling so much of her body against him…it was fairly distracting, even though he was trying his best to ignore it. He knew it wasn't cool to feel attracted to her given the situation, let alone physically aroused. It seemed more than inappropriate, even kind of sick, given what had just happened between them and what she was talking about now, the fact that she wanted nothing but comfort and reassurance from him and was finally trusting him enough to seek it out.

But Santana was so damn close to him, practically breathing into his neck, and it wasn't like he could deny how warm and soft she felt, how attractive she was even given the roughness of their situation and her less than polished looks at the moment. And when she shifted her legs, which meant they significantly brushed against his own, Puck felt a low stirring in his groin and chest and had to shift himself too, holding her a little more loosely away from himself even as he tried to refocus on her words.

"'Tana…look at me." He took hold of her chin, turning her face so she was made to look at him, straight in the eyes. "You know me, gonna tell it straight without sugarcoating or trying to build anyone up, so you know I'm gonna tell you what I think for real. So here it is, straight up." He waited, making sure she was listening, before continuing. "You're better than anyone else in that crowd you just said you're gonna get picked out of. You of all people oughtta know that. Come on, Lopez, you KNOW that. Way you strut around like you own the world, you totally could if you wanted to and you gotta know that again now. You're super hot, way talented, smart as fuck even if you do lameass things, and you're gonna get what you want once you figure out what it is 'cause you never stop until you do. You're gonna get un-lost and you're gonna go places you want to go, cool places, and if you wanna be famous or whatever you're gonna be 'cause people would be stupid to forget you once they know you. You got this. You're gonna make it all a reality 'cause that's just who you are. You can do whatever the hell you want to and you will. You just gotta make everyone else see it too."

He paused, then leaned in slightly to kiss her forehead, brushing back her hair from her face as he added in a less forceful, more hesitant tone, "And…you know, San, we're proud of you too."

He could see her softening in response to his words, her lips curving into a small smile, and when Santana swallowed, closing her eyes, and sighed, her head nuzzling slightly into his chest as though in thank you, Puck swallowed out of an entirely different emotion, still trying to keep her a little apart from him without making it obvious to her why he was doing so.

"Yeah, I know I'm smart," she said, and her tone was simply factual, rather than cocky. She lifted her head a little, tilting it to look up towards Puck more fully as she continued. Her voice was more normal in volume now, carrying considerably less of the sadness that it had before. She simply seemed to be wondering aloud now, using Puck as a sounding board for her questions rather than as a confession for her fears.

"But maybe I'm not college smart. Or not as smart as I thought I was. I mean, when I was actually in college…I hated every second of it. Not just the Kentucky cheerleaders, which was a terrifying experience to behold, what with the accents and the strange obsession with chicken and ham and other farm animals, but the classes and the schedule and just…everything. I don't like to learn shit for the sake of learning shit when I'm never going to use it in my life. I can do it, I just…I don't want to do it. I'm tired of it. I did so many pointless things I really didn't care about in high school and I want to be done with that, you know? I want to do things that mean something to me. So…I thought about applying to NYADA or some other arts school, but…following after the Broadway twins? Really? And then if I didn't get in, even if I didn't go for NYADA but somewhere else, and I didn't get in and they both did…"

She grimaced, shaking her head, and then suddenly laughed. "Fuck, why the hell am I telling you all this? You're making me soft." Then she laughed harder, seeming, newly amused by this wording. "Noah fucking Puckerman is making Santana fucking Lopez soft. Jesus, this has to be a dream."

Puck had to laugh too, because when she worded it in that way, it did seem a completely ridiculous and unlikely thing. But it also seemed to be somewhat true. He looked down at Santana, laughing against his chest, her body loose and relaxed against his, hugging close to him as if there was nowhere else she wanted to be, and it seemed completely insane and unlikely that this was the same girl who had been cringing from him touching her, the same girl who had stifled cries into his neck or screamed insults at him on a public street. It seemed just as unlikely how soft he himself felt towards her then, how despite the contrary evidence of Puck JR, he just wanted to hear her laugh and see her smile, continue to make her find some sort of happiness in the middle of their gloom.

Smiling down at her, giving a slight laugh himself more in response to her mirth than because he really was all that amused himself, Puck tugged at her hair, then deliberately traced the word "loser" into her back, laughing out loud when she recognized the letters and gave a mostly feigned indignant gasp, swatting his hand. He shoves her shoulder lightly, then laughed again when she traced an obvious L on to his forehead before he grew more serious, responding to her even as he continued to smile.

"You should do it, San. Apply to art schools. I mean, you sing, you dance, and you're hot, what more do they want? And don't even try the "not smart enough" thing 'cause look around some, you know you're smarter than half the people that teach college. And believe me, I know that 'cause I fucked a few of them and they weren't no genius. Look at the people who taught in McKinley High, half of them were loaded every day. You think you can't beat them out? Mr. Shue went to college, and you know you can beat him out any day. Do it, San. Show them your shit, blow 'em all away. Plus come on, if you don't beat out Rachel and Kurt you KNOW you're gonna regret it. Make 'em see who the real superstar is, right?"

He watched her smile soften, dimples briefly flickering in and out of view in her cheeks as her gaze shifted down. And then she was looking back at him, still smiling, what looked like a faint flush to her face as she responded.

"I knew it…you better run your ass all the way to the Air Force, 'cause Noah Puckerman has gotten fuckin' SOFT on me."

There was innuendo in her expression and tone, which she backed up by slightly bucking her crotch in the general vicinity of his- which only served to further excite Puck, and more specifically Puck Jr. So maybe he hadn't been as subtle as he had hoped, or maybe it was a coincidence .Either way, she had to know the score after that. She was the first to make innuendo, and Puck took that to be a flashing green light with innuendo of his own.

"I ain't the only one who's soft," he smirked, and he deliberately stroked his hand over her side and hip, giving her backside a quick squeeze before sliding his hand back up to the more neutral area of her hip. "See, soft. Soft and tight."

He expected Santana to gasp and shove his hand away, to elbow or hit him again. What he didn't expect was that for the second or two before she did so, she sucked in her breath in a manner that didn't seem to be either anger or shock, or even fear. If Puck wasn't mistaken- and he was pretty sure that this, if nothing else, was something he could read pretty well in women- Santana had actually enjoyed the gesture…had actually reacted with involuntary pleasure.

It seemed incredibly strange and unlikely, that she would enjoy him squeezing her ass, given everything that had been going on. It seemed much more likely that she was about to scream and bitch him out over it. But in those few seconds before Santana knocked his hand away and leveled a scowl in his direction- a scowl that Puck noticed was wavering badly with the smile trying to break through- he had been almost positive that her eyes were glinting with a look he recognized as enjoyment.

But then she was shoving at his hands, elbowing him hard in the ribs as she practically yelped, "Hey, hands off the goodies, I might be easy access but I'm not free and no sticky Puckerman fingers are smearing up their surface gloss."

"Surface gloss…what are you, a marble counter top, polished and hard?" Puck teased back even as he began to pull back from her, choosing then to give her some physical space and simply lie beside her rather than keep his arms around her or his hands in contact with her body or her skin. Although she seemed to be in a good mood, a playful mood, his sense of boundaries with her was still not quite defined, and he chose to reel himself in before it got even more off center. "'Scuse me for seeing a whole bunch of cracks."

He started to lay on his back on the bed, stretching one arm behind him to pillow his head. Before he knew it or had any chance to see it coming, Santana was rolling to face him, and then she was sitting up, her surprisingly strong hands pushing against his chest, pinning him down against the mattress, or at least making some pretense that she was doing so. And then her legs were straddling him as she sat on his torso, slim legs pressing into his sides as she looked down at him, her eyes glowing with renewed playful intent. Her long dark hair falling forward, slightly tickling his upper arms where his short sleeves ended, Santana looked down at him with a cocky little smirk twitching her lips, appearing very satisfied with herself.

"So I'm soft and you're polished and hard, huh? Yeah, I can see that."

She nudged his sides with her knees, then looked pointedly down towards his crotch, so Puck's eyes had no choice but to follow- and the rest of him seemed to have no choice but to respond. He caught his breath, attempting to disguise any blurted out phrases that rose to his tongue with a faked cough, but before he could do even this, Santana was leaning in, speaking in a smoky murmur as she looked down at him through lowered eyelashes.

"Soft…still think I'm so SOFT?"

And then her lips were against his, pressing hard, almost smushing his mouth flat against hers. She kissed him with some force for a few seconds, seeming to be making a point of some kind, forcing him into submission rather than showing any sort of affection or desire….at first. And then something about the kiss seemed to change, when Puck first began to respond on automatic instinct, to readjust the positioning of his head so he could kiss her back properly. For a moment or two, she eased off, her lips relaxing, and she began to kiss him back more gently, less pressured…and for a split second, her tongue stroked against his.

The whole exchange lasted no more than seven or eight seconds at most, ten, tops. But when Santana quickly pulled her head back, then rolled off him all the way, flopping onto her back beside him on the bed, with no body parts touching or overlapping, Puck found himself breathing much faster than he knew to be normal, and his entire body felt as though she had kindled a fire within him, causing heat to course through him from the inside out.

Had this really just happened?


	12. Chapter 12

Beside him, Santana laughed, sounding as breathless as he felt, and he sensed her shift herself, the mattress squeaking slightly. Although she wasn't touching him with her skin, her hair was brushing his arm, and it was driving him crazy in ways that had nothing to do with irritation. How the hell could something as simple as a strand of hair against his arm be affecting him, in the aftermath of that kiss?

"Well, there was definitely nothing soft about that gob of yours," Santana announced, "word of advice, Puckerman, Chapstick is your friend. I suggest cherry flavor for best results and the nostalgia of an old Katy Perry song."

"You would pick that one when talking about macking on me," Puck rejoined, even as he was aware that his own voice sounded no less winded, no matter how much he tried to normalize its tone. "Can't say the same for you…you ain't no marble mouth, that's for sure. Softy."

"Oh, shut up," Santana replied, a surprisingly weak retort for her, but she was laughing, a little more faint now, before she turned onto her side to face him more fully, her tone attempting to be serious as she continued.

"You know that didn't mean anything, right? I was just playing with you. Still lesbian, still think your mouth tastes like dead skin flakes…still think your nipples are like huge, totally unsexy pepperonis," she added, her eyes slipping down to his shirt-covered chest with a smirk, and Puck made an indignant noise of protest at this even as he smiled.

"Hey, I'll have you know, Lopez, my nipples are every bit as delicious."

"Right, I'll just call you Puckeroni," Santana rolled her eyes at him, and they both laughed, a little easier this time, less forced. Even so Puck found that his skin was still tingling where she had touched him, that when he looked over at her, something about the way she looked at him seemed…different. It seemed stupid to use the word when they'd been mocking it for so long, but he could think of nothing better to describe it with than…softer. Somehow, the way that Santana was looking at him now was softer than it had been before.

"Was that weird?" Santana asked him suddenly, her tone more serious, and she gestured towards Puck's body and face in one all encompassing wave of her hand vaguely. "I was playing, you know that, right?"

"Sure," Puck said after a brief pause, breathing out through his nose and giving her a quick, careless shrug in response. Even as he answered her, he was careful to keep his body from touching her at all, because whatever his own response might be, Puck Jr's was likely to be entirely different. "I mean, yeah, little weird, but you ain't called Ho-Pez for no reason, so."

She rolled her eyes at him but seemed to take no offense; in fact, she seemed so deep in thought, her brow furrowed, eyebrows slanted slightly towards her nose, that she didn't even respond with a verbal comeback. Watching her, Puck took this to mean regret on her behalf. Which meant things could get sticky- something that, weird or not, he definitely wasn't wanting right now. If Santana wanted to go back to not touching, he could do that- but now, after having been so close to her, even platonically, for so long, and having gotten such unexpected comfort from it…he really didn't want that. If he had to talk her through this weirdness to get back to that, well, it might make him soft, but he was gonna have to try.

"Hey, you wanna pretend it never happened? It's cool," he offered, shrugging. "I know I'm a sexy man beast and it's hard to resist even if you're a total lesbian, I'm just that hot, so. We can rewind and redo and it's all good. Never happened, okay?"

But Santana shook her head slowly, strands of her hair brushing against Puck's arm and causing him to twitch in response to her slightly. She shook her head, frowning faintly, but it appeared more so because she was concentrating, considering, than because she was upset.

"I…no." She paused, then shook her head one more time, clarifying more strongly. "No. I don't want to rewind or pretend it never happened, or…it's okay. Okay?"

Puck watched her, the started to nod, uncertain, but willing enough to go with whatever it was she was saying she wanted. He didn't know what exactly that was, but as he waited for her to continue to indicate or explain, Santana's hand slowly reached out. Turning onto her side so she was fully facing him, she lay her palm flat against his cheek, cupping his face in her hand. Lightly stroking her fingertips over Puck's cheekbone, she swallowed visibly, keeping her voice quiet, but firm in tone when she spoke again.

"Kiss me, Puck."

Three words, very simple, to the point, and without any confusion in their meaning at all. And yet Puck did not understand. Kiss her…she was asking him to kiss her, without joking, without being sarcastic or being forced or being drunk, or even seeming to be particularly upset. She was asking him to kiss her, seeming certain, seeming serious, and he didn't have any idea of why she would do so.

But he also didn't waste any time analyzing, or even thinking about it much at all. If Santana was asking him to kiss her, and she seemed to genuinely want it, seemed to be serious about it, well…he wasn't exactly going to say no.

His hand moved to cup the back of Santana's neck, and Puck leaned in, looking into her eyes one more time to make sure, and then he kissed her. The gesture was gentle at first, still more of an asking of continued permission than anything else, but Santana didn't resist or pull away, her lips relaxed and pliant beneath his, soft and warm and open to further contact. So Puck continued, deepening the kiss, opening and closing his mouth against hers and feeling a flare of heat roll through his veins in response, warming every part of himself, when she began to kiss him back.

And Santana was indeed kissing him back. No longer simply allowing him to kiss her, but participating, her lips moving in rhythm with his, surprisingly gentle and smooth- not at all like it had been all those years back, when they had actually dated. Back then it had been all about aggression and speed, more of a battle for domination than a seeking of mutual affection and pleasure, and as much as Puck remembered enjoying it, somehow this seemed more to him now than it had ever been then.

Santana didn't really want him, not like that, not sexually. At least, not the last he had understood of it. But she did want to kiss him, for whatever reasons of her own, and those few moments of simple, easy kissing, fully clothed, seemed to him more intimate than anything he had ever experienced with her naked.

Santana's eyes were closed, her fingertips still gently stroking over his cheek as she lightly sucked on his lower lip, then pulled back slightly, catching her breath. When she moved back in to kiss him again, this time she was using tongue, stroking it over Puck's not with the fast, aggressive gestures that he had been used to from her sophomore year, but slowly, almost caresses, seeming to be testing his response, or perhaps simply her own. Either she was more into this moment than she had ever been when they were fifteen, wanting to make it last, or maybe her relationships with girls had taught her a few new tricks and given her new preferences. Either way, she seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself, and Puck definitely was too.

Her free hand was now touching the back of his neck, scratching lightly, and Puck returned the gesture, smoothing roughened fingertips over its nape and enjoying vaguely the feel of the fine baby hairs slightly curling beneath the heavier curtain of her hair. He kissed her jaw, then the hollow of her throat before moving back up to her lips.

It seemed a very long period of time, yet all too short before Santana finally pulled back. Puck was breathing more heavily than was normal, and he didn't fail to notice that Santana's chest was heaving slightly, that she was blinking rapidly and swallowing, just as he was, as though reigning herself in or getting back within control. He was still close to her, his hand still splayed over the back of her neck, thumb lightly rubbing over its skin, and though her face was apart from his, it was still close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek. When Santana rested her forehead against his cheek, shifting closer to him, her nails still lazily scratching at the back of his scalp, Puck inhaled sharply, trying to settle back down. He could smell the scent of the cheap shampoo that had been left for them in her hair and against her skin, and he briefly closed his eyes, very much aware of every part of her body that was in contact with his. Her knees against his legs, her breasts brushing his chest, her arm lightly touching his side…they were further apart physically now than they had been before, when he had lay with her in his arms, and yet somehow it seems so much more intense, so much more insinuative, whether or not she intends for it to be, that it's making every part of him feel vividly alive.

Puck gently squeezes her neck, circling his fingers into a massaging gesture, and when Santana sighs, closing her eyes, he rubs his other hand up and down her spine, causing her to shift just a little closer to him, relaxed, a faint smile playing at her lips.

"Shit," she breathes, slightly breathless still, but there is no malice or dismay at all to her words. She is still smiling, and when she opens her eyes, there is mischief brightening their surface noticeably. "I guess I can learn to live with your chapped issue."

Puck laughs, lightly flicking the back of her neck, then turns his head slightly so he can kiss her forehead. His hand coming to a rest against her lower back, he lies with her in silence, enjoying the pleasant thrumming of his skin at the continued contact with her, resisting his desire for more. And after a few seconds he asks the question that only now seems even vaguely important.

"Not saying I wasn't kinda into that. Or a lot into that. But I'm kinda wondering…what exactly was that all about? I mean…you're still gay, right?"

Santana rolled her eyes, scoffing quietly, but there was no irritation behind it, a smile still playing at her lips.

"Yes, Puck, believe it or not, your lack of deodorant, clean clothes, and proper hygiene tactics for the past few days have not left me overcome with your charms to the point where I have totally abandoned lady love 'cause I'm so totally into you and your oversized boulder shoulders instead."

"Okay, so…" Puck shrugged, more than a little confused. "So what is this then?"

Santana's mood became more serious then, and she sighed, briefly shifting her eyes downward before she responded, her tone quieting.

"Because. We're gonna have to do this, Puck. Touch each other. Be close and all up on each other, with people watching and expecting it at the drop of a hat. So if we have to…we might as well get used to it on our own terms first, so it won't be as bad. I mean…it doesn't suck when no one's around, so…maybe eventually it won't suck when they're watching."

The logic of what she was saying was not anything Puck would have thought of on his own, but it does make sense to him. Easing them in, almost like a practice…and if it makes it easier for Santana, less traumatic, then it's more than worth it. And it's not like he's going to protest it on his own behalf, if that's actually what she wants to do.

"Yeah…guess that makes sense," he said, lightly tapping his fingers against her back. "So…then we're gonna do this sometimes then, this…hug and kiss thing? Or is there…"

"We're not fucking on the side, if that's what you're asking," Santana cut him off, and he was relieved to hear only amusement rather than anger or shock in her tone. "Yeah, the hug and kiss thing, if that's what you're gonna call it. Which I couldn't because that's lame as hell. We don't have to call it anything. Or talk about it. We can just…do it. Whenever it seems…just whenever."

She exhaled, and Puck could feel the slight tension returning to her muscles as her tone became more serious again. "I'm not straight, Puck. Don't get me wrong. But…doing this kind of stuff with you…it makes me forget things, for a little bit. It makes me feel things. It…it feels good, and it's with someone that…I know you care. And I need that." She paused, giving a small smile as she adds more playfully, "And hey, it passes the time."

Returning her smile, giving a few moments' pause to silently acknowledge the seriousness of her feelings, of what she has shared, Puck nods, still lightly stroking his hand over her back before he replies. "Yeah. Does that."

For a few more minutes they simply lay together, Puck's hand continuing to caress over the slight curve of Santana's spine. And when she lifted her chin to kiss him one more time, he let her take the lead, starting and stopping as she seemed to direct. When they finally fell asleep, maybe ten minutes later, arms loosely wrapped around each other, Puck's last drifting thoughts were that Santana had one thing right. Whatever her sexuality or her reasons, whatever she really thought or felt, there was one area where they were in agreement. Being here with her, whether he was kissing her or touching her or even holding her as she slept, did feel good.


	13. Chapter 13

The sound of a slamming door, then rapid footsteps descending the staircase jolted Puck awake in what seemed to his sleep-blurred mind like mere moments after he had settled down to more thoroughly rest with Santana. He had little time to gather a defense for himself or for Santana, to come up with any sort of plan of action for whatever it was their captors had planned, so he merely got to his feet, adrenaline already pumping hard through his body as he positioned himself in front of her, blocking her from others being able to see or reach her as much as he could. Behind him he heard Santana's stifled gasp and then felt her rapid breaths against his back, and he knew that she was sitting on the edge of the bed, as close to him as she could get without actually touching him. Puck wanted to reach out to her, to physically reassure her that she would be okay, that he would keep her safe, but this was a promise he could not guarantee. He didn't want to touch her in front of the men coming towards them, Remington as always leading the way- not after what they had already seen between them on the camera, and not if it would give them any further inspiration or ideas.

"Yeah?" he asked them defiantly as they came towards them, his chin lifted, fists balled at his sides even as he forced himself to keep them down. "What?"

"Such attitude…I take it you didn't get your beauty rest?" Remington raised an eyebrow, smirking, even as his eyes deliberately drifted past Puck to rest on what he could see of Santana behind him. "No matter, at least one of you is in no need of it, and you hardly need it for what we require of you. Come."

When Puck blinked, confused by this sudden command, Remington's eyebrow rose further, and he sharpened his tone slightly. "I said come. Did you think you would get out of fulfilling your end of the little deal you struck? Or do I need to consider it null and void and go with my original plan instead? Should I be taking Santana with me instead of you?"

Puck heard Santana's breath hitch behind him and knew with certainty how afraid she must be of these men and what they might intend to do, because one thing about Santana was she didn't buckle under or take shit from anyone. If she wasn't speaking up to insult or defy them, that meant that she believed completely that they were capable of everything they had ever threatened or implied they were willing to do- and if Puck was honest, so did he.

It took him a few seconds to realize what Remington was talking about, however. Puck had nearly forgotten his deal- that he would be their muscle, if they would leave Santana be. With very little rest at all, he was now being required to come with them and intimidate or escort girls- girls probably little different from Santana- or sell drugs. He knew he had agreed to do it, and it definitely beat the alternative. But as he took one slow step forward, away from Santana and their bed, he paused, narrowing his eyes at Remington, but even more so at the men behind him, all three who were clearly half glowering, half smirking in Santana's direction- checking her out.

"How am I gonna know if you leave her alone like you said you would? I still want her to come with me."

"Oh, no you wouldn't, Noah," Remington replied easily, almost in a friendly fashion, shaking his head at him with a smile on his face that was so condescending in nature Puck itched with the desire to simply knock him cold. "I can assure you of that."

"Puck, just…just go," Santana whispered to him urgently. Puck didn't look back at her; he didn't think he would be able to take looking at the strain or fear he knew would be in her eyes, nor show her the stress or doubt in his own. "Do what they want. I'll…I'll be okay, just go."

He wanted to ignore her. He wanted to go back to the bed to her, put his arms around her, and not budge apart from her, forcing them to pry him off if they wanted him separated from her so badly. It felt wrong with every inch of his being to actively step away from her, to deliberately separate himself from her no matter what he had promised or what alternative horrors might occur if he did not. But there seemed no other option, and so Puck slowly began to walk towards Remington and his guards, actively gritting his teeth at his own decision.

"Good boy," Remington sneered as Puck stopped in front of him, and when he went so far as to clap a hand on his shoulder, Puck had to dig his own short nails into his palm to stop himself from trying to throw him to the ground. "Don't worry, your girl here will be left alone, just as you requested, as long as you're cooperating. Wouldn't want her to be too worn out for round two with you and your newfound fans, now, would we?"

Of course that wasn't what he wanted, but Puck was hardly going to satisfy him with an answer. He set his jaw, his eyes focused on the wall past Remington as they walked towards the stairs, refusing to respond aloud. But when Remington repeated the question, his voice carrying an edge now, it seemed that there was no longer an option other than to respond.

"No," Puck said tautly, feeling his jaw muscle twitch with his desire to say so much more. "No, we wouldn't."

He couldn't help it; as he ascended the stairs, he cast one look back at Santana, left alone in the basement. Seeing her sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes trained on his, her face pale and anxious already with the prospect of their separation and whatever it might bring onto herself, he wanted to make himself smile or reassure her, to wink or make a kissing gesture- anything to make light of the situation, anything that might make her smile. But she looked so small and scared and alone, and Puck could not seem to come up with any gesture to bestow on her, however silly or quick it might be. He just looked at her, and when the basement door was opened and he was for the first time in days allowed to walk through, he prayed for the first time that he would be allowed to return- and that there would be no change at all when he did so.

Puck never would have thought that being around four beautiful women, all who made it clear that they were in every way sexually available to him, could be so completely dispiriting.

The girls that he had been commanded to escort, along with Paul, Vincent, and Jeremiah, Remington's guards, had all been young and attractive, there was no denying that. They had all been physically beautiful, exactly the type of girls he would have pursued without a second thought back in Lima or even Los Angeles. But as he helped propel these particular girls to where they needed to go- into taxi cabs and hotel rooms, apartment hallways and strip joint back rooms- Puck could not stop thinking of them not as objects of beauty or potential sexual partners, but rather as victims, every bit as much as he and Santana were- because it didn't take more than one good look to be able to determine that this must be the truth.

Beautiful as the girls were, Puck could see the deadness in their eyes, the listlessness in their movements, and hear the flatness in their voices, causing him to know with utter certainty that not one of them had chosen to be there any more than he had. Most of their eyes carried a glossy sheen that told him they were high, and all of them carried a hopeless air about them that was so depressing he could barely bring himself to look at them, let alone talk to them- not that most of them would look at him at all. It didn't take a conversation to know from their avoidance of looking at him that they were frightened of him, simply because he was a large male standing with the other men, now becoming part of the group holding them hostage.

It was so messed up and so beyond anything Puck had experienced before, for women to be afraid of him and what he might do to them, that he felt shame to even look towards them at all. He wanted to tell them all that he didn't want to be there any more than they did, that he would never hurt them. He wanted to tell them that he hated what was happening, that he would help them if he could. He wanted to tell them that he wasn't like the others, that he was sorry for what he was making them do. But he could say none of that with the others with him, and so he remained almost completely silent, hating himself more and more for every second that he even pretended to be an aggressive presence compelling them forward.

He had understood, once he had been escorted out of the basement for the first time, that it was not actually a home that he and Santana were being kept in, but a workplace, an older building set up from the outside to look like a dull and very official office. As he had been lead in and out of various "offices" inside, Puck had quickly realized that the building was from the outside apparently a private massage parlor, and in fact, several of the rooms that he had gone to, in order to retrieve a girl, had had not beds but rather massage tables, which he assumed served as replacement beds for them. Puck didn't ask for any further details, but he could guess on his own how this worked.

The girls must be kidnapped or otherwise compelled into "service" with Remington and his men, then kept in the basement, like he and Santana were now, either until a newer girl came along, or until they felt that she had learned to "behave." Puck guessed that when he and Santana met that criteria, they would be given a room upstairs too.

He tried to observe everything he could about the girls, the set-up of the building, their bedrooms, and the schedule that the men were leading him through, not wanting to forget a single thing about any of it. It could prove vital to helping him and Santana escape in the future.

The night seemed to drag on and on for Puck, not only due to his lack of knowing what to expect or where he would go, what he would be asked to do, to his lack of full, uninterrupted sleep, but also because of his worry for Santana. Sure, Remington had told him that she would be left alone if he did this, but what would truly stop him or anyone else from doing anything they wanted to her, either to prove a point to Puck or simply because they wanted to? It wasn't like Puck could do a lot to stop him even if he was there with her, but at least he would have an idea of what was going on and could do what he could to minimize it. But without him there, without him even in the same building, absolutely anything could happen. There was that threat hanging over his head, all of the night, and the more Puck thought about it the stupider he felt for actually willingly leaving.

Maybe this was the opportunity they were looking for to get him out of the way. Maybe he would come back and Santana would be dead or even gone. Maybe they had shipped her off to some slave country and he'd never see or hear from her again. He didn't know and could only have dozens of guesses and worries, and as the night wore on and it grew closer to morning, Puck was so worried he could barely concentrate on anything at all except how much longer it would be until he could finally go back to her- if she was even still there.

He had no watch, but he estimated from the way the sky was just beginning to lighten that it was near six am by the time he, Vincent, and Jeremiah returned back to the building with their last girl, depositing her back into her room before he himself was almost shoved back through the basement. He didn't even turn back to face its door, already hearing one of the men locking it back and knowing it would be pointless to even attempt to try to escape. At this time he had no concern of that, nor any inclination to do so. All Puck wanted then was to get to Santana, to check that she was still present and unharmed. Everything else was a far distance second, no, everything else was not even on his radar until this was ascertained.

But as his feet hastily descended the staircase, almost tripping him with his combined exhaustion and eagerness, it soon became apparent to Puck that Santana was not there in the basement, at least nowhere that he could see. His head swiveled back and forth, and he turned in a circle hurriedly, as though Santana might be simply standing behind him or sitting in a corner of the room rather than in clearly visible sight near the bed or walls, but he had not been mistaken- Santana was not in the room. Although he knew it was unlikely, Puck knelt beside the bed, looking beneath it, and as he had already known, Santana was not hiding beneath it. As he stood, momentarily lightheaded with growing anxiety and fear, Puck scrubbed his hand over his face, sucking in a slow breath as he tried not to completely buckle under to the racing of his heart, the adrenaline steadily pounding through his veins.

She couldn't be just gone. Even if he had feared it, even if he had dreaded it might be the case, she couldn't be. They wouldn't just take her from him, they couldn't have. They couldn't have done this, he couldn't be alone.

"Shit," he said aloud, his voice quiet at first, shaken. He repeated it with more feeling, again scrubbing his hands over his face as she straightened up, flexing and unflexing his fists unconsciously. "Shit, shit, shit, fuck, no. No, this isn't fucking happening, this isn't-"

"Puck?"

The voice was quiet, hesitant, and female- and familiar. So wonderfully familiar that Puck felt his throat choke with relief and gratitude even before he heard the bathroom door open and Santana's footsteps approach him, slowly at first, and then faster once she could see him, still standing beside the bed. And then she was running the few steps left, throwing her arms around him and hugging him so tightly he could feel her heart beating at a near frantic rate against his ribcage.

"Oh god you're back, fuck, I'm so glad you're back," she muttered into his chest, her words muffled but clearly very, very relieved. She squeezed him hard, and Puck could feel her nails biting into his skin through the material of his shirt as he closed his arms around her, hugging her back every bit as firmly. It felt so good and right then to have her back in his grasp, solid and real and alive, within his reach, if nothing else, that he couldn't speak at first; he didn't think the words could have been forced out if he tried. He just held her, somewhat unsteadily breathing in the scent of her hair just under his chin, listening to her begin to ramble, not sounding entirely together herself.

"You were gone so fucking long, I didn't know if they'd ever bring you back! It's been all night, where have you been, what have you been DOING? Did they hurt you? I was getting fucking scared, do you know what it's like to be down here all by yourself all night long, I didn't fucking sleep, not at all. God, Puck…"

She squeezed him again, exhaling in a shuddering sigh against him, and then pulled away, peering into his face as though to look for any evidence of physical marks or bruises. Puck swallowed, his hand beginning to caress Santana's back in slow, circular motions, trying to calm her down. She wasn't crying, but she was obviously as wired as he was.

"No, they didn't hurt me, I'm okay," he reassured her, shaking his head at her and gently brushing her hand down when she put it against his cheek, turning his head from side to side as though to further inspect for any possible wounds she might have somehow missed. "Promise, 'Tana, no one hit me, no one hurt me, I'm okay. What about you? Did they touch you? Did they try to come in? Did they…"

He cut himself off, not even wanting to say any more graphic possibilities, but Santana was already shaking her head, denying.

"No, no, they just shut the door after you and left. I was in the bathroom most of the time anyway, with the light on, it's just…it's so damn dark in there, and all the shadows move around, and it's this huge space all by myself and they can come in, so I didn't want…"

She didn't finish her sentence either, giving a slight shudder before she wraps her arms back around Puck, squeezing hard, even as she looks back up towards his face.

"Where did they take you? I was starting to think you'd never come back!"

"Hey, hey, 'course I'll come back," Puck murmured, although he himself had wondered as much, both for himself and for Santana. He continued to rub her back, smoothing circles in between her shoulder blades. "Never gonna leave you for long, San, you know that. I'm always gonna come back soon as I can. Always."

He didn't know if what he was saying was true, but he needed it to be true, needed to say it, and he knew that Santana needed to hear him say it too. She seemed to be calming down upon hearing it, nodding slightly and taking another slow breath in, seeming to be considering genuinely what he was saying. When she started to rest her head back against his shoulder, the tension in her muscles beginning to ease, Puck kissed the top of her head, then her forehead as he continued to mutter to her just under his breath.

"Always gonna come back. Don't worry about that. We're okay, all right? We're both okay."

He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, noticing how each small gesture seems to cause Santana to relax into him a little more, as though he is depositing reassurance into her skin to spread up to calm her anxious thoughts. He can taste salt on his tongue from her skin and knows then that she had been crying. It makes him feel that much more protective of her, gentle towards her then, and he continues to give her occasional brief kisses on her face as he rubs her back. She lifted her face, looking up at him when he kissed her other cheek, and when their eyes met, Puck went for it. He leaned his face down and lightly pressed his lips against hers.

She responded almost immediately, closing her eyes and kissing him back, both arms coming up around his neck, one hand stroking upward through this hair and splaying its fingers wide. She kissed him, ending it with a small slip of tongue that left Puck swallowing, again trying to awkwardly shift himself slightly apart from her, and then she was pulling away gently, taking him by the elbow and giving him a tug.

She didn't say what she wanted from him, and Puck didn't ask. He simply let her lead him back to the bed, and when she lay down, he lay down beside her, waiting for her to indicate what she wanted or expected. When Santana moved closer to him, turning her back to him, and then reached for his arms, beginning to manipulate them around herself, Puck clued in to what she was asking and pulled her back more snugly against his chest, letting her curl her body back into his in a spooning fashion, wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders and waist, his face bowed down towards her hair. Listening to her breathing, he felt the tension in his own body begin to drain away as he rubbed his fingers lightly over Santana's forearm, beginning to drift away.

Maybe it wouldn't be quite as bad as they had thought; maybe they would be given some space and some freedom, more than they had expected, if they did follow the stupid rules. So far the men had kept their word, when neither he nor Santana had truly expected them to. And they did have each other. As long as that was still true, maybe they really did have a shot.


	14. Chapter 14

For the second time in less than twelve hours, they were awakened by the sound of footsteps on the staircase, men's rough voices calling their names. This time as the basement light was flickered on and off, and four pairs of feet approached, Puck did not have the time or presence of mind to disentangle himself from Santana in time to avoid being seen so close to her, and even before he had his eyes open all the way, before he had processed what was happening or was fully awake at all, he could hear laughter, and then a male voice sneering at him.

"Well, well, well, it looks like our favorite little movie stars here have already started the warm-ups to their next big scene without us even having to prompt them. Surely you've had enough time by now to be all set for act two."

It was Remington's voice. Puck recognized him by now, and he could hear his men snickering in approval behind him. As his eyes finally opened all the way, and he struggled to sit up, his limbs clumsily knocked into Santana's as she too tried to disengage herself from him, to scoot out of any physical contact with him that the others might observe in person. She had been closest to the edge of the bed facing out into the rest of the room, and as a result she would have to maneuver herself quite a bit to be able to position herself behind Puck on the bed rather than as the person closest to the men, but she tried, avoiding meeting their eyes.

It killed Puck to see how Santana responded, every time she was in Remington's and the other men's presence now. This was Santana Lopez, the girl who had brazenly put herself into dark alleys just daring someone to wish her harm…now unable to look these people in the eye, let alone to challenge them verbally as she so easily would have just days before, without a second thought. Whether this was because she was genuinely so intimidated by them, or because she felt so humiliated and violated by them and knowing what they could make her do, what they had already witnessed her do, Puck didn't know and wouldn't ask, but to have her scrambling to put herself as far out of their reach and view of her as she could manage made him so angry he had to take a handful of the bedspread in his hands and squeeze to make sure his hands would stay down in his lap. Even so it was a touch and go situation.

"I just got back," he reminded Remington, though he couldn't be sure what time it was. For all he knew, he and Santana had slept most of the day away and it was night all over again. "Don't we get time to sleep in this busy little schedule of yours?"

"Sleep? You really are some kind of pussy, boy, that you would actually ask for sleep over getting another piece of that juicy little ass over there," Remington nodded his head towards Santana, who promptly dug her fingernails into Puck's shoulders so hard that Puck had to grit his teeth to keep from flinching. "See, here's what we're looking at," he added almost conversationally, though Puck could see that he was fingering something hidden inside his jacket and knew immediately that Remington too must be carrying a gun.

He didn't dare take his eyes off the man's hand, unconcerned about the three behind him. Although they had guns as well, he knew, they were also currently busy- setting up the computer and camera that they had all too short a time ago, the day before. Seeing this, Puck knew, and knew from Santana's increasingly tight grip on his shoulders that she knew too, what was inevitably going to be required of them.

"Here's the thing," Remington repeated himself, seeming to enjoy hearing himself talk as he idly continued to play with the concealed object inside his jacket, his eyes drifting between Puck and Santana in a careless fashion even as both knew he was watching them very closely indeed. "See, we kept up our end of the bargain here, Noah. We let you come out with us and earn yourself your first bit of cash, and we left your girl here, the one you're already looking pretty cozy with, all by herself. We did that for you, and now it's time to keep on earning that privilege. So let's go to it. I seem to remember you promising that you'd…how was it you said it… "fuck her all day long," if that was what it took? And you'll be pleased to know, I'm sure, that your efforts yesterday have made you both very, very popular. We have orders already booked for this repeat performance, and we are anxious to see just how well you manage under the pressures of your newfound stardom. So camera's rolling," he gestured back towards Paul and Vincent, who seemed to have gotten everything set. "And we'll just be right out of your way for your…well, I suppose it's only relative privacy, given that there were some thousands of viewers last night, and we'll be right outside the door. Enjoy!"

And then the men were heading up the stairs and out the basement door, closing and locking it behind them…leaving Puck and Santana, only a few minutes removed from sleep, huddled together on the bed, tousled and bleary-eyed and knowing that what seemed like most of the world was watching.

There was only one choice, of course, one option available to them of what they could do. By now the consequences of not doing it were obvious, and neither was willing for them to occur. So it was with this in mind that Puck took in a slow breath, cast a furtive glance towards the camera, only a few feet away from them, and then turned towards Santana, looking her in the eyes.

She looked back at him with her eyes glinting with obvious fear, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her brow furrowed with intense thought and held back feeling. She swallowed visibly, her throat working, but even with the reluctance in her expression, Puck could also see her taking a breath to mirror his own, and then she rolled her shoulders back, as though to deliberately attempt to loosen any tension they harbored. Looking into his eyes, she gave him a small, barely perceptible nod, permission to do as needed…and seeing that, her gathering the nerve she would need, Puck felt his heart swell with renewed affectionate pride towards her.

She had said she could do this. She had been working earlier to try to make herself more used to this, and whatever he had to do, he would help her with it. Make it better, make it okay. She had asked for that, and he had promised to deliver. Maybe it would be possible to even help her try to enjoy it, just a little bit.

Reaching out to take Santana's cheek in his hand, turning her face up towards his, Puck leaned in to kiss her, beginning the previous ritual of at first avoiding her lips. He kissed her forehead, both cheeks, and near her ears, and as he did so he squeezed her hand in his free one, and began to whisper reassurance.

"We got this. We're okay. You're okay, I got you. I got you, San, just…just relax, I got you…"

He squeezed her hand, feeling her squeeze back, lightly at first, then harder. He kissed her lips then, just a gentle peck at first, but when he felt her mouth soften beneath his, felt her breathe out through her nose, as though calming herself, he kissed her more fully, still gauging her reaction.

Santana kissed him back. It was hesitant at first, clearly self-conscious and forced, but then it seemed to become more natural for her, more genuine, or at least she became more at ease with pretending. She kissed him, her hand slowly reaching up to spread over the back of his neck, and Puck felt a faint shiver roll down his spine from the sensation of her long nails lightly scratching into his skin.

He kissed her, waiting to see if she would give him tongue, and though she didn't, there seemed to be something different about their kissing this time than the last. It was less aggressive, for one, less showy, slower and more sincere, if forced sexual behavior in front of an unseen audience could ever be sincere. The mood and tone was different, though, to the degree that Puck actually began to get concerned that their audience was going to grow impatient, even bored.

Pulling back from her, he kissed her cheek again, whispering to her, "Okay if we take clothes off?"

He felt her take a deep breath against him, her fingers pressing hard into his skin, and then she nodded against his shoulder, just barely. He heard her sniff hard and knew she was still fighting for control, but so far no tears had fallen, nor had he seen them in her eyes. She was getting through this, even if she wasn't okay, and there wasn't much more either of them could expect than that.

Puck started with himself first, slipping his shirt off over his head and tossing it on the floor. By now he was aware that his clothing was beginning to stink of the accumulated nervous sweat that had gathered over the several days he had worn them, but Santana's one effort of attempting to wash them in the bathtub had not resulted in any noticeable difference in scent or cleanliness, so he wasn't at all concerned about the dust and dirt littering the concrete ground dirtying the material. Meeting Santana's eyes for her continued permission, he helped her remove her shirt, lightly stroking his hands over her shoulders and down her arms in a gesture meant to warm her as much as to continue to attempt to relax her immediately after. The basement's temperature was always chilly, and he could feel her shivering, probably from nerves as much as from the cool air against her exposed skin, beneath his hands. Smoothing his hands over her skin, he massaged her lightly with his thumbs, then leaned in to kiss her throat, again whispering into her neck.

"It's okay. Stay strong, 'Tana, it's okay."

He kissed her again, a soft kiss on the lips meant for continued reassurance more than anything else, and felt her start to briefly respond as he then reached for the hook of her bra, rubbing her back where it had been previously touching skin. Puck stroked her back in a circular motion for a few moments, almost in apology, before easing the straps of her bra off her shoulder, then removing it entirely.

It would have been impossible for him to look at only Santana's face then, without at least sneaking looks at her breasts. She was breathing shallowly, her chest visibly rising and falling, but she made an effort to smile at him even as her mouth twitched before she could force it into a smile.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked him, and the sudden loudness and bravado of her voice startled Puck so that he blinked, a little taken aback with the incongruence of her voice and her face. "Hurry up and fuck me, baby…come on, make me cum…"

She was slipping herself into a role again, distancing herself from the Santana Lopez that she truly was and becoming a character that would better suit the situation they were being put into. She was hardening herself deliberately, putting her true thoughts and feelings aside to make this easier for herself, just as he had been trying with gentleness to make this easier for them both too. But the roughness of Santana's chosen demeanor and the gentleness that she had asked him to treat her with didn't seem to go together, and Puck paused, momentarily confused as to how to proceed.

It seemed then that the best thing to do would be to just move through it as fast as he could, to again voice harsh words even as he touched her with nothing but care and tenderness, breathing calmer words into her ear. So Puck said back to her gruffly, "Oh, you want it, let's see if you can fucking handle what you got coming to you," but even as he stripped off his boxers and reached out for Santana's hips, sliding her underwear down her legs, he was looking into her face, his fingertips caressing over her upper thighs. Even as he pulled her close to him, loudly describing how long and hard he was going to fuck her, how much he was going to make her cum, he was holding himself at such an angle that the camera could not see how the hand that was not kneading her breast was rubbing her back and shoulders, seeking to ease the overly taut muscles that his fingertips were finding. Even as he pretended to bite and suck at her neck and shoulders, he was whispering into her skin, genuinely only kissing the clammy flesh he found there, attempting to warm her with his breath and his words as much as with his lips.

Puck barked and swore at her like Santana was trash, even as he tried with his touch and his murmurs, in between her feigned pants and groans, to make up for it by conveying to her that she was none of this, that she in fact exactly the opposite. He didn't have the presence of mind or the time to tell her that she was beautiful and strong, that she was worth so much more than what was being done to her, but he hoped in a distance, wordless way that she got the message all the same. And when Santana grabbed his hand and squeezed, pressing one wordless kiss over his heart, he received the message she herself was sending- that she understood, even if she hated every second of it. That she forgave him, even if he could not quite forgive himself.

Santana seemed to be doing better, this second time. There were no tears, at least, no shrinking away from him or prolonged nonverbal protest on her part. She seemed to have resigned herself to the start for what must be done, and this seemed to help her endure it and even play into it more thoroughly than she had been able to before. But even so, he could feel her nails digging into his skin periodically, her shallow breath against his chest, the continued shivers of her body beneath his skin, and he knows that her ability to hold it together does not mean she is doing well…and neither is he. By the time he finally manages to get himself off, barking one last sexual innuendo that even he cannot remember or make total sense of, and then pulls away from her to turn the camera off, Puck himself feels physically ill. He takes his time in returning to the bed, hastily snatching up his underwear and putting them on with slightly shaking hands before he will even think of approaching her.

It's finished for now. But they both know it isn't over.


	15. Chapter 15

Santana didn't speak when Puck started to walk back to her on the bed. She didn't even look up. She hadn't redressed herself, or even reached for the sheet to cover herself. She had simply drawn her legs up to her chest, embracing them as her spine curved over, completely blocking herself from any private parts of herself being able to be seen. She hugged her legs, her head bowed down towards her knees, her hair falling forward to partially hide her face from him. All bravado and enjoyment, both feigned and faintly genuine, were gone now, leaving her stripped, it seemed, of any energy to do anything else but curl in on herself.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled as he sat on the bed- the first and most important words, words he was beginning to realize would have to be repeated again and again, every time this ever happened, until they seemed every bit as meaningless as the act itself. "You're not hurt…right?"

Above all he had tried to ensure that, that if nothing else, he would not hurt her. He had tried to be careful with his bracing and his angle, with the penetration and even with how he held her hand. The one thing he could be certain he could offer that no other man would, was to make sure she wouldn't be physically uncomfortable, even if everything else about what they were doing was literally fucked up.

He saw Santana nod, just barely, though still not lifting her face to look at him. She didn't ask for her clothes, or reach out to him in any way, not that he really expected her to- not yet. Considering that last time, she had jumped into action almost immediately, bursting into tears and running for the shower, her reaction now, so still and quiet, almost as if she weren't even in the same room with him at all, was confusing and disturbing him. He wanted desperately for her to say something, anything, even if it were to curse him out or scream at him- anything but this terrible quiet, this drawing within herself literally and figuratively both.

"San…do you want me to give you your clothes?" he ventured, stooping to pick up her shirt and holding it out to her. "I won't look if you want to get dressed, I promise. Do you want a shower, or…"

She didn't respond this time; she didn't even shake or nod her head. She just sat there, head down, and Puck could hear her slightly heightened breathing, realized, after watching her for a few more moments, that she was shaking. He could see the tremors running up her arms, quivering up her spine and jerking her shoulders…was she crying? He couldn't hear any sobs, but nevertheless, her response deeply affected him.

He had thought this time was better; he had thought that she was more used to it, what with her hypothesis that remaining physically close and affectionate to him in between their video performances would help her to get through more easily. She had not seemed as obviously shaken or upset during the filming or the act, and he had in part attributed that to his own efforts to help her. He had thought it had mattered.

It was becoming very obvious that this was not the case, at least not to the degree that he had hoped it would be. And as he looked at Santana, so clearly struggling, it was all he could do not to stand up and start kicking the wall, giving vent to the frustration and pain that his disappointment and guilt in her behavior was causing him.

Instead, he took a deep breath in, gritting his teeth, and scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to shut down all the feelings that he knew would do very little to help either one of them, should he let them spill out on Santana now. Instead, he stood, reaching behind her for the bed's sheets, and began to position them wordlessly around Santana's shoulders, tucking them over her in an effort to provide her with some warmth. He was careful to avoid touching her as he did this. He positioned the sheet, then the blanket as well, and then he scooted apart from her on the edge of the bed, watching her with his brow furrowed into a frown.

"San…just say something. Call me a dick or whatever you want, just…say something, alright? San?"

But she wasn't saying anything. It occurred to Puck that maybe she couldn't, that the gradual choked feeling coming up his own throat might be present in hers as well to the point that she couldn't have talked if she wanted to. He watched her fingers digging into the skin of her knees, exerting pressure to the point that their tips whitened, and yet she showed no signs of experiencing pain or discomfort from this.

He had to do something. He couldn't just stand there and watch her behaving like this, he couldn't just let her be this quiet and strange and not try to make it better- to make her better. It was what he had promised, to make it better for her, to try to make it okay, and Puck couldn't let her behave like this or feel like this without trying.

He didn't know if Santana would want him to touch her, but it seemed that talking was not something she was going to respond to, and he knew of nothing else he could do. So he simply reached his hand out and lay it on the back of her bowed head, lightly touching her hair. When Santana didn't lift her head or move away from him, or make a noise of protest, Puck began to slowly, carefully run his hand down its length, stroking his fingers through its locks. As he did so he watched her closely, ready to move away or even possibly take cover depending on her response.

At first there was none. Santana didn't lift her head, didn't turn her face up towards him to meet his eyes or to more closely ascertain what he was doing or his intention behind it. She stayed huddled into her knees, beneath the covers he had arranged around her, and Puck started to wonder after the first twenty seconds or so if she even noticed what he was doing at all. But then he could hear her breathing change in pitch, growing faster and louder and more uneven, as if she couldn't quite draw air reliably. And then he could see her body shaking even more noticeably beneath the blankets' mound, could hear the stifled gasps of what seemed to be her efforts to hold back tears.

Puck didn't hesitate then in his response. Maybe Santana didn't want this, but it seemed evident to him that she needed it, and even more so, he needed to do it. He moved himself on the bed so he was positioned behind her, crouching somewhat awkwardly on his knees, and wrapped his arms around her blanket-covered form from behind, pulling, clasped legs and all, back against his chest. He didn't turn her so she would have to face him, didn't try to kiss her or talk to her. He just hugged her in this manner, finding himself rocking her back and forth slightly, and swallowed repeatedly against the lump still uncomfortably sticking his throat, trying to loosen its hold.

Santana never did speak to him. She simply wept, quietly at first, with little energy or volume to it. But the longer Puck held her, rocking her in a steady, rhythmic fashion, the more steadily the forcefulness of her tears increased, until she was sobbing aloud into her knees, her body shuddering violently in his arms. She cried until she was choking and coughing, until she was almost gasping for breath, and the whole time Puck held onto her, fiercely fighting down his own impulse to join right along with her.

He had never thought it possible to hurt so much for another person, with another person. He had never thought it possible that he could be the cause of so much pain without ever having physically harmed someone at all. And he had never known that he could manage to simultaneously feel so young and helpless and so very old, exhausted, and worn within the very same moment in time.

He held Santana until he could hear her crying begin to subside into sniffles and gulps, until he felt her body's shivering become only occasional twitches. He held her until he felt her relax at last back against him, and only then did the hot tears pricking at his eyes, barely held back from overflowing, finally disappear, controlled from having ever fallen.

It was then in those moments of the silent aftermath of Santana's tears that Puck made a decision for himself. There would be no more of this. Whatever it took, whatever he had to do…he would never do this to her again.

88

They were hurting her.

Puck could see it so clearly, every moment seeming to expand out in time so it lasted an eternity. There was no hesitation on their part, no holding back whatsoever, no concern for anything except their own desire for gratification, their pleasure in her pain. They were hurting Santana, they were terrifying her, using her in every way they could think to, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to help her.

He could see all three of the men holding her down, their huge hands fully encircling her arms and almost able to do so with her legs, so roughly that it was certain they were leaving bruises. Santana was bucking and writhing beneath their grasps, trying with the desperation of someone who truly believed she was fighting for her life to escape them, but there was no way it was possible for her. With three men holding her, all much bigger and stronger than even her panic and rage could help her to be, she had no hope of even loosening one hand, let alone breaking free entirely. But she was trying, Puck could see how hard she was trying, how she was chafing her wrists and straining her muscles and joints trying to loosen their holds on her. He had heard several loud popping noises and her resulting cries of pain and suspected she had dislocated a shoulder or some other joint in her efforts, but even this did not diminish her efforts, or cause them to show pity in their holds.

He could hear Santana crying, her breathing coming in gasping sobs as she fought, her occasional screams of wordless pain, and sometimes she did manage to get her breath enough to find words, calling out to him with her tears clouding her voice. "Puck…oh god, help me, Puck, please, please, help me, please…"

He could see every second of it all too clearly, burned forever into his brain so he knew he would never for the rest of his life, ever, forget the horror of these agonizingly slow passing moments. The three men holding her down, sneering and merciless against her pain. Remington in the midst of it all, his hands roaming all over her bare and bruised body, squeezing and pinching, seeming to enjoy causing her humiliation as much as pain. And then he was instructing the others to push her legs open, completely ignoring her screams, ignoring her nearly incoherent begging pleas as she tried to push them back together, tried to keep him from inserting himself between.

And all this time she was looking not at any of the four men before her, but at Puck, her face red and shiny with tears, her eyes bright and fervent as she continued to beseech him to help her, to save her, somehow…

"Please, Puck, please, help me, oh my god, please…"

And he couldn't do it. It wasn't that he didn't want to. There was nothing more that Puck wanted than to go to Santana then, to be at her side ripping them all off her and hurting them so much more than they had ever even dreamed of hurting her. There was nothing physically stopping him from doing so. There were no chains or ropes, no handcuffs or straitjackets, no men holding him back. There was nothing at all that should have prevented him from going to her and beating every single one of those men into a coma, if that was what it took to get her away from them and back into his own protective grasp.

But even so, he couldn't do it. No matter how hard he tried to move forward, to swing his arms or even to speak, nothing would happen. The harder he tried, the more frozen in place he became. Puck was paralyzed, literally unable to move himself…unable even to speak. All he could do was stand there, motionless, and watch, unable even to look away, as Santana was brutalized right before his eyes. All he could do was watch and know that she would never understand, she would never forgive him, she would never-

"Puck!"

Santana calling his name, over and over, but somehow her voice seemed closer, even though she was all the way across the room from him. Calling his name, wanting him to help her, wanting him to save her, so disappointed in him because he couldn't. No doubt thinking that he just wouldn't try, she would never understand, he could never explain. She would never-

"Puck! Puck, wake up…Puck…"

Something was touching him, grasping his shoulders, shaking him back and forth. But how was that possible when she was all the way across the room from him, and all the men were with her, holding her down?

"Puck, come on…you're starting to freak me out…Puck?"

It was only then that Puck started to notice that Santana's voice, so familiar to him, seemed to be talking in two places at once. But the screams were fading, seeming only a faint reverberation in his memory, and the second voice seemed closer now, louder and more clear. She wasn't screaming, she wasn't crying at all, and though her voice was hoarse, carrying a clear note of anxiety, she certainly didn't sound as though she were being tortured.

When Santana spoke his name again, and he felt himself shaken one more time, Puck began to become more fully conscious of what it was that was happening. Still slow to come fully realize or understand the unreality of his dream, he opened his eyes, blinking blearily at his familiar and all too real surroundings.

Santana was sitting up on her knees, crouched over him, her hands grasping his shoulders gingerly as she spoke directly into his face, the ends of her hair brushing his shoulders where she leaned in. Her brow was knitted into a worried frown, and she licked her lips nervously, seeming only faintly relieved when he looked back at her. Her grip on his shoulders eased only a little as she scooted back an inch or two, releasing her breath.

"Good…it wasn't real, Puck…Puck, it wasn't real, it was just a stupid dream…Puck?"

Hearing her voice drop low, the uncertainty now coloring its tone, Puck didn't at first understand her reaction. He hadn't done anything unusual, as far as he knew, except blink up at her, adjusting to being awake, reassessing his own perceived reality as he looked her over, making absolutely sure that there was no one else in the room, that what he could see of her face and body was unmarked and unharmed. He didn't know why Santana would be looking at him with her lip caught between her teeth, why her eyes would darken, her features softening, her posture reflecting her sudden unsureness. He didn't understand until he heard his own breath hitch with an undeniable sob, until Santana slowly reached out her hand to touch his cheek, and then drew away fingertips damp with a single tear.

"It's okay," she whispered, and she reached to stroke his cheek again, her fingers dry when they pulled back now, but it didn't stop her from reaching out a third time, cupping his cheek in her hand. "It's okay…we're okay. Just…Puck? Go back to sleep, okay? We're okay."

It was the first time he had ever heard her say that, the first time he could recall that she had been the one to direct the words towards him. Maybe that was because it was the first time that Puck himself needed to hear it, whether or not he knew he could believe it to be true.

When Santana gently pulled at his shoulders, then curled into him, her arms wrapping around his waist, her ear pressed against his chest, she managed to shrug herself beneath his arms, arranging herself in such a way that Puck had little choice but to embrace her back. She didn't speak to him anymore, and maybe that was for the best. There was nothing else that needed to be said with words. She curled into him, closing her eyes, and Puck held her, listening to their uneven breaths slowly stagger out into a similar rhythm together in time.

88

You're going to fucking eat, Santana. Now."

It had probably been most of another day since the men had last demanded a performance from them, approximately an hour since two fast food bags full of burgers and fries had been unceremoniously shoved down the staircase at them before the basement door was locked up again, too fast for them to even see which person had deposited it. Puck had since devoured three quarter pounders and a large fry, but Santana's portions remained in the bag untouched. She wouldn't even look at them; she wouldn't even let him take them out of the bag.

And it was pissing him off.

"Eat," Puck repeated, his voice louder, testy now, and still Santana didn't even look in his direction. Standing against the wall beside the bed, her back leaned into it, she kept her arms crossed over her chest, her chin stuck out in seeming defiance, her eyes narrowed until they were practically closed, and she did not turn her head in his direction. When she responded, her voice was sullen but adamant.

"I said I'm not fucking hungry, Puckerman."

"I don't care if you, Santana, are hungry or not, your nonexistent stomach is, so eat," Puck repeated, hearing his voice rise a little more, and he took a step towards her, holding out the bag and shaking it. "Food ain't gonna get any more appetizing if it's friggin' cold, so just eat it already and stop making a huge deal over a damn burger."

Still Santana wouldn't look at him, wouldn't even argue back in a reasonable manner. Jaw set, eyes fixed past Puck rather than at him, she spoke one word and one word only, as though this was all she thought necessary to get her way.

"No."

And that one word was enough to infuriate him to the max. Puck felt his face heat, the hand not holding the bag ball into a fist as he shoved the bag in her face again, not even attempting to keep his voice calm anymore, let alone lowered in volume.

"Santana, eat the damn food, what the hell is your problem? Just eat it!"

For the first time Santana responded to him directly. Her head finally turning towards him, her eyes meeting his with surprising fire in their surface, she drew herself up to her full height, her back at last straightening so she was no longer leaning into the wall.

"Why, you like your girls a little on the chunkster side and I ain't making the cut? Sorry if I don't match up to the Zizes standards, which my girth approximating that of a baby rhinoceros, but rest assured, Puck, even if I lost thirty pounds I'd still have my boobs. That's the power of implants, bought and paid for, so never fear, you're always gonna have something vaguely resembling globs of fat that you can have your wanky fantasies over. Your little wet dreams are secured for the future."

They both knew very well that the last "wet dream" Puck had had in Santana's presence hadn't been that sort of dream at all; Santana knew, because she was the one who had attempted to awaken and comfort him through it, that he'd been having nightmares, barely sleeping steadily or deeply at all as a result. She knew that, she had witnessed that mere hours ago, and yet here she was mocking him for supposedly lusting after her breasts, implying that any dreams he had would be about sexual gratification off of her. Here she was, completely glossing over what to Puck had been a very vulnerable moment he would never want spoken of aloud at all, and the anger that shot through him in response to this was so strong he didn't think for a moment about his response. He just spoke, his instinct to insult riding over any efforts at grace and civility that the last two days had forged between them.

"Gonna be pretty hard to have anything but nightmares about you if I'm gonna end up having to hump a fucking skeleton with balloons tied on."

The remark had hit hard. He could see it in the way she flinched, drawing in her breath as though he had slapped her, the quick blinking of her eyes and the stiffness coming over her features. But she didn't take much time to show any shock or hurt by it. It wasn't more than a moment or two before the steel had come back into Santana's expression, and she jutted her chin out aggressively, her eyes flashing renewed defensiveness.

"Oh, so now you don't like my body, is that it? So I'm right then? That's what this is all about, you want me to eat a burger so I'm not too scrawny for your sexual preferences?"

"Santana, what the fuck are you talking about?" Puck rejoined, although he knew very well that this was exactly what he had implied, even if it wasn't a statement he had meant, exactly. Still, he wasn't about to explain that now, or back down from whatever view of it she might get if it was going to piss her off to his satisfaction- not when she was pissing him off every bit as much right now.

"What you just fucking said, Puckerman, do you even listen to your own self talk or is that too much work for your poor, overstressed two brain cells?" Santana snapped, biting off the words so harshly that it seemed as though she were ready to bite him as well. "You're such a fucking liar. You seemed to like it well enough when you were putting it to me- AGAIN."

And there it was, hanging out between them all over again, raw and ugly and undeniably both the truth and a lie all at once. There it was again, no less difficult to cope with even in the light of the initial tenderness between them in the aftermath…always just under the surface, waiting to emerge at the first signs of conflict. Glossed over, unmentioned, but present, undeniably present, and as Puck looked at her, her face flushed with defiance, even as her fisted hands trembled and shook at her sides to betray her more vulnerable emotions as well, he had to put all his effort into simply shaking his head, then deliberately turning himself away from being able to look at her. If he didn't, he was suddenly sure, the words he would say or the actions he would take would be more than either one of them would be able to handle.

"I'm not doing this shit with you again, Santana," he managed, hearing the slightly strangled sound of his own voice and knowing that it was unlikely she would interpret the reasons behind his own difficulty speaking. "Just stop talking. Now."

But stopping herself from talking when someone else wanted her to was not exactly Santana's strong point; in fact, Puck doubted she'd ever done that in her life, if only to prove a point that she was not one to be ordered or controlled. And she certainly didn't make it a brand new happen by listening to him then.

"No, you don't get to shut this shit down when you feel like it! You start it, you're gonna play it out to the bitter end! So you don't like my body, Puck, is that what you're saying? So let me get this straight then, let's make sure I've got this really fucking clear so I know EXACTLY where I stand on everyone's standards with that, so I can just make sure I readjust myself accordingly to every given situation. I'm too fat for Cheerios, I'm too skinny for the Latina community at large, I'm too feminine to be a lesbian and too into vaginas to be straight, I'm too smart for Lima and too stupid for New York City, my boobs were too little before the implants and too fake after, and apparently, I'm too much of a "bone with boobs" for you and your shriveled baby carrot of a dick, but I'm perfect, just fucking PERFECT for pimps and johns and everyone on the paying internet porn underground. Excuse me if I have a hard time figuring out exactly which role I'm supposed to be too much or too little of when!"

Had Puck himself been in a reasonable mood at all, he would have determined easily enough that Santana was working herself to a state where both of them would only be benefited if he backed down and tried to smooth things over. But Santana's rant was only feeding into his own frustration with her, and he had no patience or thoughts of diplomacy- something that even in the calmest of times, was hardly his strong point.

"Santana, you're being insane," he informed her, crossing his arms over his chest in an unconscious mirroring of her. "Just eat the damn food already. I didn't say shit about your body so stop putting words in my mouth and start putting some fucking food."

He didn't respond to the other parts of her diatribe- about being stupid or lesbian or the "type" of their viewers. There was no response to that, especially the last part, that he could give without feeling very uncomfortable, and he didn't want to feel that Santana was in any way justifiably upset, even for reasons that had nothing to do with him at all. He was right and he knew it, in his own view, and there was no point in acknowledging even a tiny bit otherwise if Santana was gonna take that inch and run a marathon with it where he ended up again being the one dragged in the mud with it.

"Oh, so it's about control then, not my body and if it's got enough extra padding for you to get it up," Santana shot back, uncrossing her arms and starting to use them to gesture in static bursts of movement that didn't quite seem to go along with her words. "You tell me to do something and I do it, no questions asked, whether I want to or not? Sorry, NOAH, but that's only good when the cameras are rolling, you lose all fucking privileges once they're off and gone."

Puck felt his arms begin to shake with held back adrenaline, and he flexed his fists, struggling to keep them down by his side. So this was where she was going with this…again. No matter what he tried to do, no matter how he tried to help, no matter how she herself had already previously excused him, this was always what it came back to. Whatever their efforts, in the end, she couldn't let this go, they couldn't make this okay…and however he tried, she was still going to throw this in his face the second she got pissed off. She was always going to make this about him being one of the bad guys, she was never going to really trust him or give him credit…not really. She was always going to come out swinging with claws bared, no matter what he tried to do for her, and it frustrated him to the point he could hardly even think coherently in response to her, let alone speak.

And it hurt. Whether she genuinely meant what she was saying or not, it fucking hurt that the accusations she was leveling at him would even cross her mind, let alone come out her mouth.

"Don't even go there, Lopez. Not again," he managed after a few moments, his voice so tight and strained it didn't sound like it was his own. "You know I tried. We've had this fucking conversation before. You told me to do what I had to do and we'd try to make it okay, and that's exactly what we fucking did. Don't rewrite history to suit your whim 'cause you think you're gonna get fat off a fucking burger or something. You KNOW I tried. What the hell else am I supposed to do, Santana?"

"How about don't stick your dick in me?"

It was a cheap shot, completely unfair, and they both knew it. Puck knew very well why Santana was responding like she was, just as she had the time before, just as she did every time that she felt herself to be in some way humiliated or violated by Remington, his men, and by unwilling extension, Puck himself. It was her way of taking back control, of taking herself out of the helplessness and fear, the grief and hurt she felt, and focusing only on anger, whether or not it was being directed at the appropriate person. Santana's anger was justified, but not logical, and it made it no easier for Puck to be on the receiving end of it. Especially when he knew, KNEW that he had done nothing to deserve it- at least nothing that he could control or help.

He could have flared up at her then. He would have, the day before, and probably even ten minutes ago. But something about the way Santana was looking at him then, with her hair messy and tangled around her face, partly covering her eyes, with her features tensed and strained, made him unable to spit out the angry words that came to his mind. Instead a heavy tiredness came over him, and Puck found himself slumping, his eyes shifting away from her as he let out a slow exhalation, feeling his anger seeping out from his muscles almost entirely. When he looked back at her, it was only that resigned weariness that was left in him, and he could answer her with quiet but firm resignation- or was it simply decisiveness?

"Okay."

Santana blinked, clearly not having expected this response. She shifted her weight, uncrossing, then almost immediately recrossing her arms, and her tone lost some of its aggression as she spoke. "What?"

"I said okay," Puck repeated, in no less of a calm and quiet tone than he had before. He continued to watch Santana, knowing in that moment with complete sureness that he meant what he was saying to her. He had thought it last night, and now more than ever, he intended to somehow keep his word.

This wasn't happening again. Not when it would always result in this stand-off between them, not when it meant that they would never be able to fully stand together united with this in between. Not when it meant that he would have to look Santana in the eyes and see that he had hurt her, not when he would have to hate himself one more time for something he had been made to do against her. Not when he would have to feel her tears against his skin and force a touch that he knew was entirely unwanted.

This wasn't happening again. Somehow, in some way, Puck would have to figure out how to make sure of it. His promises hadn't been worth very much so far, whatever his intentions, but this one, he intended to keep.


	16. Chapter 16

But whatever her commands to him had been, however she might have wanted them to be carried out, Santana had clearly spoken more out of sarcasm and desire to hurt than out of any genuine thought that Puck might agree. Staring at him, she squinted her eyes, even tilting her head slightly with genuine confusion as she regarded him, seeming unable to process his response.

“What do you mean, okay?” she repeated, putting deliberate emphasis on the final word of the sentence. “Okay what?”

“I mean, okay,” Puck said yet again, exhaling. He hadn’t thought that the word or its concept was so difficult, but it seemed beyond Santana’s understanding at the moment as he attempted to explain. “You want it that badly, and whether or not you believe it, I want it too. For it not to happen, I mean. So…okay. I’m not gonna do it again, Santana. I’m not gonna do that to you.”

He hadn’t exactly expected Santana to beam with great enthusiasm or to clap and cheer and tell him what an awesome guy he was for this decision. But neither had he expected her to just continue to stare at him, her mouth slightly open, brow furrowed deeply, before abruptly shaking her head, putting both hands up in the air, and turning away from him.

“Just…Puck…just, just shut up, okay? Just…just leave me alone a little while…just stop it. Don’t even…just stop it, okay?”

Her voice was quieter then, all anger and aggression gone; in fact, Puck could hear it shaking slightly as she cupped her elbows again, a deep breathing visibly rolling through her spine. It was clear that she didn’t believe what he was saying, or couldn’t allow herself to believe it, and so Puck leaned forward towards her, speaking more intently to try to convince her as much as himself. 

“I mean it, San. I’m not doing it again. I won’t do it to you. I said it and I mean it. Whenever we’re supposed to…” he shrugged, lifting both hands in an uncertain gesture and letting them fall again. “We just won’t. We’ll have to figure out what we’re gonna do instead…but we won’t do that.”

“Oh, right, Puck, we just won’t. Jeez, why didn’t I think of that one, it would have just been so simple,” Santana scoffed, turning back to face him then, arms at last uncrossing to gesture sarcastically towards him as well as she rolled her eyes at him. But despite the sarcasm of her gesture, there was no longer any real anger in her face, and she was actually looking him in the eyes. “Don’t be an idiot. You heard them. You think if you just refuse to do what they say, they’re gonna go, oh, okay then, sorry to bother you, and go skipping back up the stairs and go about their merry freakin’ way without us? You know exactly what will happen, you’re the one that made the fucking deal with them. You’re gonna get your fucking head blown off is what’s gonna happen, and then…you know what they’ll do with me,” she swallowed, the words emerging with some difficulty. “Don’t be stupid.”  
“We don’t know that for sure,” Puck shrugged, although he privately thought that she was probably totally right. “They make a lot of threats, they won’t necessarily carry them all out. They’ve said a lot of shit, maybe they only mean some of it. We can’t know until we test it out…they could be bluffing. Maybe their guns don’t even have bullets or whatever.”

“Right, I’m sure they carry them around just for fun, they probably use them to paintball with or to shoot water wars,” Santana rolled her eyes again, but Puck thought he noticed a slight easing of her posture, and she had taken a step towards him as well. “Might be bluffing, are you serious, that’s the best you’ve got? And you’re gonna bluff with your life on the off chance that they’re bluffing with their threats?”

Puck shrugged again. Put like that, it did sound silly, but he didn’t regret it. If anything, the more he talked about it aloud with Santana, the more he could see her relaxing just a little, showing even with her skepticism the smallest signs of hope, the more he was convinced that this was what he wanted…that this was what he should do. What he had to do.

“If I have to, yeah.” He held her eyes with his, speaking with as much sincerity as he could manage. “I’m not doing it again, Santana. I won’t. We’ll find another way, I’ll take whatever it means. But I won’t do this anymore.” 

He watched as she began to smile, slowly at first, then more fully, her eyes lightening. There was a new softness to her features as she shook her head again, more slowly now, but even so, he noticed that her lips were trembling slightly as she uncrossed her arms, taking another step towards him. 

“You’re an idiot…you’re going to get yourself killed.”

She was probably right. There wasn’t much Puck could say to dispute that, so he simply shrugged, giving her a small smile back.

“Yeah, well…that ain’t new, right?”

She smiled more fully then, taking another step forward, and then, to Puck’s surprise, she hugged him, somewhat hesitantly at first, but then more fully, leaning into his chest. As Puck slowly slipped his arms around her, returning the embrace, he could just barely hear her whisper into his chest, after taking a slow breath that he could feel through her back. “Thank you.”

When she pulled back, then walked back to the bed, sitting and gesturing for him to join her, he did so, unsure what was to come next. He expected her to start discussing the practicalities of this new plan, to start coming up with a new plot and strategy of some kind. But instead, Santana simply rolled her shoulders, cutting her eyes at him sideways before asking, “Do you really think I’m too skinny?”

Puck’s eyebrows shot up, and he snorted with part surprise, part amusement, turning to face her more fully. “What? Where did that come from?” 

“From you and your mouth, who else?” Santana rolled her eyes, exhaling loudly. “All you talk about making me eat and humping a bone…what other conclusion is there left for me to draw?”

“Santana, don’t you think we have more important things to worry about?” Puck shook his head at her, still smiling slightly, but also incredulous. “Does it even matter what I think about how you look? Sexy as we both automatically are, it’s not like either of us are at our most studly now. What do you even care what I think of how you look?”

“I don’t!” Santana said hurriedly, sitting up straighter on the bed as her features immediately stiffened, defensive. “I don’t. Just…it’s whatever. It doesn’t matter, I don’t care at all. I just…I wondered, that’s all.”

But when Puck looked her over again, he could see that she was still looking at him sideways, that she was still holding herself in such a way that her body language seemed to belie her quick replies. He had a feeling, observing her guarded expression and demeanor, that Santana did care what he thought, maybe more than even she realized. He wasn’t sure why he believed that, but it nevertheless seemed true. 

Less than a week ago, he wouldn’t have noticed or cared if Santana’s words didn’t match with her expression. He would have taken them at face value, rising to whatever bait she set, and any hidden meaning would have blown past him. But he’s been with her now at such a close and constant level of proximity, hour after hour, day after day, that this is no longer possible. He’s seen every side there probably is to see of her, everything from her most brave to her most bitchy to her most broken, and none of it really shocks or surprises him anymore. He has held her through the night and tried to protect her through the day, comforted her and been tended to and comforted by her. He has worked out countless plans of how to help and save her and yet dreamed and despaired over all the ways he could harm or lose her, and all seem equally possible and real. He has watched her bare her naked skin but even more importantly, he has seen her bear her naked, hurting soul, as stupid and cheesy as that might sound, and there is no way, after all of this, that he wouldn’t notice and care when she’s lying through her teeth about being hurt. Especially when the person she was lying to and about happened to be him.

“Yeah you do care,” he said simply, shrugging. “Look, ‘Tana…I just want you to eat, alright? Not because I want you to look any certain way, even though I gotta say the sticking out ribs look ain’t the most attractive one. And not ‘cause I think you’re ugly or not hot anymore or whatever if you don’t. I just want you to be okay, alright? Just…healthy and whatever.Can’t be a badass if you lost all your ass, right?”

Puck had hoped that the light tone of his reply would cause Santana to lighten up as well, that she would smirk, roll her eyes, and reply in a similar fashion. But she just cut her eyes at him, crossing her arms over her chest, and the defensiveness of her stance and tone was something she didn’t even try to conceal now as she lifted her chin defiantly towards him.

“Oh, so you don’t like my body then, is that what you’re saying?”

This was just getting ridiculous to Puck. He had thought he had already made his thoughts on the matter pretty clear, both verbally and otherwise, not to mention, he wouldn’t have thought that it would bother Santana what he thought one way or the other. She had always seemed to be perfectly comfortable and pleased with her body, convinced that others were very much attracted and interested in it as well, so to hear her expressing any insecurity or defensiveness about this was surprising and somewhat unprecedented to him. She was a Cheerio. She was always wearing tight, short little dresses and flipping her hair around and showing off her augmented boobs, with a smile and a smirk and obvious assurance that what you saw would be something you liked. So how could she somehow come to the conclusion that he thought she was unattractive…and why did she suddenly care, especially since he was a guy and she was a lesbian?

It was beyond Puck’s current ability or inclination to analyze, and he didn’t attempt to. It was enough for him to understand that for reasons beyond his comprehension, Santana did care what he thought about her appearance and obviously wasn’t as totally confident with it as she usually put off, at least not in the moment. But because he didn’t understand, and found it somewhat ridiculous, he didn’t waste much time trying to reassure her otherwise. 

“Yeah, ‘Tana, you’re totally right,” he rolled his eyes, impatiently scuffing at the floor with the toe of his shoe. “I spent all night hugging up on you and all the night before making out with you and squeezing your ass, not on camera, not on command, ‘cause I think your body is totally nasty. Same reason I slept with you on and off all sophomore and junior year, ‘cause you’re one hideous chick. How’d you figure that one out so fast?”

“You said I was a bone and you said I have a nonexistent stomach, and you keep harping on me to eat even though if I did, I’d probably puke two minutes later right now,” Santana shot back. She was pulling apart from him on the bed now, not quite turned away from him, but definitely not close to him as she could be and definitely not looking him straight on. “You practically called me Mary-Kate Olson and I hate that twiggy, bug-eyed Janis Joplin wannabe.”

“You used to puke anyway in Cheerios, didn’t you?” was Puck’s thoughtless reply, paired with a shrug. “All you Cheerios did with that shake of Sue’s or whatever. So what does it matter if I do think you’re skinny or eating disordered or whatever else, obviously that was what you wanted, right? To be super skinny? Only thing is now you gotta take what you can get here ‘cause you’re not even eating enough to puke, so…”

It was clear within seconds that this was again not a helpful response. When Santana stared at him, her eyes narrowed, and shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line, the frustration scrunching her eyebrows and forehead was intense enough that Puck thought for a second that she was going to slap him. 

“You’re really such a clueless dick, aren’t you? How the hell do you EVER get laid?”

When Puck opened his mouth, intending to go into specifics to annoy her if nothing else, she cut him off, actually now turning again to fully face him as her voice rose slightly. 

“Let me school you now, Puckerman, because obviously you need the education. No girl at any time wants to hear that their body sucks, okay? It doesn’t matter if it’s ‘cause people are saying it’s too fat or too thin or too short or too tall or too dark or too light or what, and it doesn’t matter if they know they’re hot and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if they like the person or not or care what they think or not because news flash, every fucking girl cares what every fucking person on the planet thinks even if they don’t actually say it, because the way you look is the first and usually last thing anyone notices or cares about. No one wants to hear they’re too skinny even if they work every single fucking day to be that skinny…everyone wants to hear they’re hot and beautiful and amazing, and that is ALL. And that’s what I want to hear too. Is that so damn hard to understand?”

She paused, swallowing, and the stridence of her tone dimmed considerably as she swallowed, lifting her chin, and continued somewhat defensively, “And…I don’t do that anymore. The puking thing. That was sort of a high school thing. So that has nothing to do with this. I just can’t fucking eat when I can barely even swallow or breathe sometimes here, is that so damn hard to understand?”

It made sense to Puck, and on some level was actually something of a relief. It wasn’t that Santana was worried about her looks or her body, or trying to exert some sort of control over her circumstances or get into a power struggle with him; it wasn’t that she was trying to make him angry or punish him in some way, make him worry about her deliberately or feel guilty. It seemed from what she was saying that this was nothing deliberate on her part, that it wasn’t actually nearly as within her control as he had assumed. For her to make a decision not to eat was different than for her to genuinely have difficulty eating, and he could understand and respect that, maybe even try to help her to get past the anxiety or fear that was causing it. 

“Oh,” he muttered, giving a slow nod of acknowledgement. “No, I get it…just, you should have told me that, San. I can’t get it if you don’t say it.” 

He watched Santana shrug, dropping her eyes as her hand opened and closed against her knee, squeezing slowly. He knew her, and he knew that whatever she might say then, she had no intention of doing what he had just asked. And he could understand that too. It was hard, almost impossible to voice aloud a weakness, especially given that the only person you could tell was part of everything that made you feel the way you did. 

She had admitted to him her fear, both through words and through actions, over and over; somehow it would seem too much to continue, for both of them, to have to over and over spell out to each other exactly how deeply they were being affected by it. Puck himself knew that for him to voice his own aloud to her, it would seem almost an admission of defeat, an indication that there was nothing left he could do at all but to talk about it, acknowledge it as inevitable and hopeless. To tell Santana of all the ways and reasons he was afraid would mean somehow to tell her that he could not help her, that he had given up, and they were both entirely on their own.

It might be true, that there wasn’t much he could do to help her. But he hadn’t given up. He refused to, and so he refused to really explain to her the extent of his fear of otherwise. 

“You have to push past it, ‘Tana,” he told her more quietly, not touching her, but lifting a hand and holding it palms up, shrugging. “I get it, but you gotta get past it, don’t let them do it to you. Can’t let them make you any weaker than you gotta be physically. They give food, you gotta eat it. They give you anything at all you can use, you gotta take it. You just, you have to, okay?”

He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge or agree. He frowned at her slightly, still thinking through some of what she had shared, and noticed her continued stiff expression, the fact that she still wasn’t looking him fully in the eye. She seemed to still be irritated or upset, and after a few moments of her still not verbally responding, Puck sighed again, tilting his head towards her and looking her over more thoroughly before speaking.

“You’re seriously pissed off about that, aren’t you? Look, ‘Tana, sorry for not getting it or making you think I don’t think you’re hot or whatever. I just sorta thought you already knew that. And that you knew you’re hot. You say it all the time, so…and I thought you wanted to be skinny. You did the Cheerios thing, so…and you cut on fat chicks.” He rolled his eyes slightly, heaving out another slow breath. “You girls are so freakin’ confusing, can you seriously blame me for being lost on what I’m supposed to say here?”

When Santana snorted, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, Puck made one last stab at saying whatever it was she wanted or needed to hear, while keeping it still truthful as well. Realizing from her reaction that, although her body had loosened up somewhat in how she was holding herself as she listened to him, he was still clearly not saying what she wanted to hear, he shifted, reaching out to touch her upper arm. He waited until her eyes followed his hand’s movement, then came to meet his own, before he spoke, still lightly holding her arm.

“I know I’m an ass or whatever. But you gotta know one thing, anyway. Of course I like your body and think you’re hot. I think you’re beautiful, Santana. Alright? I think you’re beautiful. Don’t you know that already?”

This wasn’t something that Puck generally said to girls, not unless he was trying to get into their pants, anyway. It definitely wasn’t something he regularly said with quiet sincerity, while looking into their eyes and putting a hand on them in a definitely non sexual manner. But it seemed needed now, almost natural, and there was no motive behind it other than a genuine desire to share with her the truth. 

And it actually did seem to be working, to be making some difference between them. Puck could feel the remaining tension in Santana’s arm ease beneath his hand, and he watched her swallow before she shook her hair back from her face, turning to face him. She didn’t shake his hand off her arm, but she also didn’t move much closer to him or make an effort to touch him herself. 

“You really aren’t going to get this, are you?” she laughed dryly, rolling her eyes again, but there was more resignation to her tone and expression than sarcasm or irritation. “There’s a lifetime of context, Puck, that you ain’t gonna get, ‘cause you’re a guy and you’re white even if you are Jewish, so there’s no way in hell you’d ever really understand. Let me just dumb it down to the basics. I’m a girl and I’m Latina, we’re not even going into the gay thing, ‘cause those two are enough when you’re from Lima. My whole life I’ve been set up to be looked down on and judged for those two facts alone, so when you start adding the context of having to be compared to white girls on top of just the general girl population, and then I’m gonna be in a whole new category ‘cause it’s cheerleader girls, and then you add in the lesbian, there is no possible way I’m ever gonna go through life without someone somewhere, or more like everyone and everything everywhere, telling me what’s wrong with me. Everything in the world is always gonna be telling me I’m not enough or where I could be better or where I suck. So…no, Puck, I don’t always know that, okay? The looks thing. I mean, I do know it, and I say it and it’s right, but…I don’t always believe it, I don’t always feel it. Hearing the same shit and seeing the same looks and just…knowing what the world really thinks all the time…you can know something, but that doesn’t mean it’s not gonna fuck with your head sometimes and wear you down. Just like you can know or say you’re a badass, but that doesn’t mean you’re also not scared and hurting like hell.”  
She looked him over deliberately as she said the last bit, and Puck knew that she was now referring to him as much as she was to herself. He couldn’t deny that she was speaking the truth, putting into words what both of them knew to be the essence of his own feelings now. It did make sense, what she was saying, when she put it into this context for him, and he felt a new sense of faint guilt and unease as he considered. He hadn’t exactly made it easy for her to feel any differently, with the things he had done and said, not just over their time in the basement, but over the past several years. It was strange, thinking of Santana Lopez as insecure in this way, but then, hadn’t they been sharing this, showing this with each other, over the past several days? Could any new perception or perspective of her really surprise him when he had already been exposed to so many, when he had already shown her so many of his own?

“You can’t even let that bullshit in your ears, let alone your head, San,” he responded after a few more moments’ thought. “No one sane would think you ain’t good enough for anything you want to do or be. What the hell does it matter if you’re not white or you’re not straight or whatever else they wanna throw out that ain’t your fault to begin with. You just gotta know for you how cool and badass you are and don’t even give a shit about them. Know it for you and not for anyone else…you’re hot and you’re fuckin’ gorgeous, and if they can’t see it then they’re way too dumb to pay attention to anyway. Who the hell is that stupid anyway, that they don’t see that?”

Puck lifted his hand off her shoulder then and took her by the chin, turning Santana’s face back towards him when she started to throw back her head and roll her eyes again, in what was a not too subtle effort to avoid looking at him. He held on, waiting for her to focus on him, and when she heaved a sigh and finally did so, he noticed that it shook slightly, even though her eyes remained calm.

“Everyone,” she informed him. “Fucking everyone, Puckerman. Think it through. Quinn’s in some big shot college, Brittany’s in MIT, Rachel’s on fucking Broadway, Mercedes is getting an album made, and what do I get? A stupid yeast infection commercial.Freaking figures.”

“’Tana, we ain’t talking about Quinn or Rachel or Brittany or Mercedes. We’re talking about you. Never thought the day would come where Santana Lopez can’t take a freakin’ compliment,” Puck rolled his eyes right back at her, noticing and smirking when Santana simply rolled her eyes yet again, this time seemingly in deliberate effort to annoy him.  
But even as she rolled her eyes, Puck saw that her expression was softening, that her lips were curving into a smile. It seemed that his words had nevertheless affected her, that they meant something to her, and she slowly began to smile more fully, even looking into his eyes. “Of course I know that. I’m hotter than any one of them, hell, I’m basically hotter than anyone. There’s really no touching this level of hotness. Of course they had to go to school and all the rest, how could they stand to stay in the same general vicinity of me when the comparisons would be so pained?”

Glad to see her interacting more playfully now, Puck smiled back at her, no longer rolling his eyes. “Yep. Hottest thing ever, ain’t gonna forget that title.” Because she was relaxed, because she was smiling, and because she just looked so much more comfortable than he had before, Puck found himself reaching out to her, slowly stroking his fingers over her cheek, resting the flat of his palm against it. “Ain’t gonna forget the beautiful part that goes along with that though, right?”  
“Nope…can’t forget that,” Santana murmured back, her voice considerably softer than it had been even moments before. She breathed out slowly, shifting, and Puck looked down as her knee bumped his leg, wondering if this bodily adjustment was deliberate. It looked like it was. She was leaning in towards him now, her posture relaxed, even…was she suggesting that she wanted him closer? Was she inviting him to draw her near?

Puck tested the theory by looping his arm around her, pulling her against his side, and sure enough, Santana molded into him, wrapping her arms around his waist. She tilted her head up towards him, looking up at him, only inches from his face, and he was almost certain now. Still he waited, not wanting now to break what seemed the fragility of the moment after the storminess of before, and this time it was Santana who made the first move.

Stretching her neck up slightly, she pressed her lips to his, softly at first, barely more than a brushing of skin. But then she was deepening it, parting her lips against his, one hand sliding up the back of his head and scratching at his scalp, and she was arching her back, her breasts pressing into his chest in such a way that Puck felt heat spark through his chest and spread low through his groin. 

He kissed her back. There would have been no other response possible. His thumb lightly stroking her cheek, Puck kissed her, even as his other hand rubbed up and down the length of Santana’s spine, finally settling against the small of her back as he drew her close to him, holding her firmly against his chest. He could feel her quickened breaths against his skin, her heartbeat against his chest, her hair brushing his arm, and it was so much contact even fully clothed, even with the surreal nature of all the circumstances in combination together, that he felt lightheaded, not quite there in the moment. Puck could feel Santana’s hand pressing against his chest, seeming to want him to lie down, and he did, pulling her down on top of him, so she lay partly over his chest, his arms locked around her waist. Continuing to kiss her, his tongue caressing hers considerably less carefully now, Puck twined her hair into his fist, lightly tugging, enjoying the responding soft groan that escaped her.

She was enjoying this. Lesbian or not, previously pissed off at him or not, she was enjoying this, for whatever reasons for her own. Maybe it was escape, maybe it was effort to be used to him in light of what would have to continue to occur between them, maybe it was fantasy on her part of someone and somewhere else, anywhere but him, here. But it hardly mattered in the moment. She was enjoying this, she was relaxed and open to it, and she trusted him. She trusted him, she wanted to do this with him, to be with him, whatever the reasons and stipulations for it, so Puck let himself go, let himself enjoy it too.

That is until the basement door opened yet again, and the familiar, sharply dreaded sound of feet descending the staircase met their ears. That is until a familiar voice called out, “Excellent, it seems you’re already off to a head start…this will certainly be no trouble for you to get in the mood this time…”


	17. Chapter 17

As soon as the door had opened Santana had jerked away from Puck, hastily shoving his arm off her and rolling off his chest so that she was beside him, completely not touching him. As Puck sat up, positioning himself in front of her, as had become his default move any time the men entered the room, he knotted his hands into fists, taking in a steadying breath and setting his jaw as he looked up at them, meeting Remington's gaze with his. He tried to keep his expression firm and impassive, not allowing his anger or his nervousness show. He couldn't, if there was to be any chance that he would get away with this, that he would be able, somehow, to stand his ground, to refuse them without the level of consequences they had been threatening.

When Puck didn't stand right away, nor speak, Remington raised an eyebrow, giving a faint chuckle as he took a step closer to them.

"Well, come on, boy, time to get to work. Earn your keep, then you can come back and have all the time in the world you want with your girl…long as you're willing to be generous with the view."

He chuckled again, his eyes shifting past Puck to Santana, who was still cringing behind him, pulling her legs up to her chest and hugging them tightly against herself, as though to protect as much of herself from being in his view as was possible. She must have glared at him, maybe given him the finger or stuck out her tongue, because Remington's eyebrows rose again, and he laughed, shaking his head.

"Oh, still the feisty one, are you? Save it for the video, sweetheart, that is, unless you're making an offer for here and now?"

"Oh fuck no," Santana blurted, her voice both louder and tighter than she had probably intended, and Remington laughed again, giving her a smile that was more of a leer.

"I do hope you're still so rambunctious when Mr. Puckerman here returns to you. Get up, boy. Earn your fun time properly."

Puck stood slowly, first glancing behind him to check on Santana. She was still hugging her knees to her chest, looking not at Puck, but at Remington and the men behind him, ever present and watchful, fully apprehensive. Whether this was because she was afraid of them, or afraid of what Puck was going to do- or watching to see whether he would at all- Puck didn't know and didn't attempt to figure out.

Remington was implying that he was going to have to have sex again with Santana when he returned from his duties with Remington's guards. He was implying that if Santana allowed him, he would have sex with her, too…and that was more than Puck was going to allow from him without at least trying to stop it again. Now was the time to stand his ground, and even though he still had no plan, no idea how of how he would make this work, there seemed little choice or option anymore. He had promised himself he would do this, but moreover, he had promised Santana. And so he stood as tall as he could hold himself, looking Remington squarely in the eye, and spoke firmly, trying to hold back anger and only sound calm and convicted in tone.

"Remington, it ain't gonna happen. No more cameras, no more audiences, no more customers. I ain't gonna do that to her, and I sure as hell ain't doing it for the world to see. I'll be your muscle, I'll be your dealer, I'll be whatever the hell you want if it ain't hurting anyone. But I'm not doing this with her anymore. Period."

Puck heard Santana suck in her breath behind him, then swallow audibly, and didn't dare look back at her, even when she whispered his name in an urgent hiss under her breath. Although she had not protested his decision when they had been alone after the first few minutes- hell, she had thanked him for it- now that they were actually in the moment of him doing so, with Remington and men with weapons right in front of them, it seemed she was considerably more concerned about the possible consequences, though not enough to contradict him where they could hear. Puck ignored her, ignored the men behind Remington, his eyes on him alone. He might not be the muscle, but he was the decision maker, he set the standards for everyone else, and it was to him only that he spoke.

Puck wasn't sure what he expected out of Remington. For him to get angry, maybe, to get threatening and remind him of his muscle and his weapons and all the ways he could compel Puck to obey. For him to physically force Puck to complete his part of the bargain, to grab Santana up and throw her down and point a weapon at her to further influence him to choose to on his own…any of this seemed possible.

But Remington didn't get aggressive or upset at all. Instead, he laughed aloud. Shaking his head, genuinely seeming amused, he smirked first at Puck, then down towards Santana, who's head swiveled between the two of them, increasingly anxious. Remington took one slow step towards them, causing Santana to stiffen, leaning away, until he was only inches away from Puck. Puck didn't flinch, didn't take a step back, as much as he wanted to; it was important, he knew, to stand his ground physically as well.

"Is that what you think?" Remington said in an almost conversational tone. "Well I certainly wouldn't ask you to do something so clearly against your….do you mean to say you have values? Values against fucking a girl you're obviously hot over? Interesting…regardless, I wouldn't ask you to do something you considered so dishonorable. The problem is, Noah, that you have also made a deal with me, and I consider myself an honorable man as well. If you break our agreement by refusing to have sex with her, then my agreement that ONLY you will have sex with her is now null and void."

This was something that Puck had known would be possible. This was something Santana herself had brought up, something that they had been threatened with all along. But to hear Remington say it out loud, after Puck had made this decision, to hear him remind him of the possibility with the seeming intention to carry it out, was entirely different than a distant threat that Puck had some sort of plan, however terrible, to guard against it. Now he had nothing. No plan, no defense except his own intentions- and even Santana seemed to distrust his ability in those.

Drawing himself up, Puck steeled himself to fight, even to grab Santana up and run for the stairs, if needed. But the guards were already moving towards the stairs, as soon as they saw his eyes flicker towards them, as though already noting this possible escape. He had them to get past, with their bulk and their complete comfort level with using it towards him in a violent manner, or else beat every single one of them- all four- to the point that he could get away. And at the same time, he had to keep Santana safe and untouched by them.

He really hadn't thought this through at all. But nevertheless, his answer was the same…it could not possibly change, whatever the odds.

"I won't do it," he said to Remington, not defiantly in tone; he sounded remarkably calm to himself, even as his palms sweated and his heart began to pound in his chest. "I won't do that to her again. Whatever the hell you're gonna do…you can't make me you. Not anymore."

"Puck," Santana whispered, and he felt her hand take hold of the back of his shirt, squeezing it tightly in her fist, her knuckles pressing into his back. He didn't know what she meant by this action, or even if she herself knew. Was she trying to say now that he should take it back, that he should do what was expected of him- what he himself had originally set up and agreed to? That he should do it to save himself, whatever the cost between the two of them?

She didn't clarify, but it wouldn't have matter. Puck knew what he had to do, the only thing that he could now allow himself to do. He had to stand his ground with this, to draw a line in the sand, not only for now in this moment, but for the rest of his life- however short that might be now.

He was not Remington. He was not like one of his men, and he was not like one of his girls, forever bound to do his will. He was Noah Puckerman, and he might not be in charge of what happened to him, but he was in charge of his choices. He would not do this, not again, and if it meant serious consequences for himself, he could accept them.

It was the part about Santana that bothered him. Because that was the part that he hadn't really thought through. And that was the part that Remington had immediately chosen to throw back into his face.

"Then you've made your decision," Remington shrugged, a slow smile spreading over his lip, an all too pleased glint coming into his eyes as he disregarded Puck entirely, his attention now focused on Santana alone. Puck felt her nails digging into his back as he swallowed, still trying to think of what to do. "And now she will earn her keep as I see fit. Starting now. You aren't relieved from your duty as a guard, however, Noah…run along with the others, I'm sure they have plenty of work for you. And as you are, however, relieved from your duty of sexual encounters with Miss Lopez, here…I would certainly be happy to take your place. If you can't appreciate her services, I'll be glad to take up what you're going to be missing out on."

He nodded towards the men, who all came forward, apparently with the intention of making sure that Puck would detach from her and come with them. But Puck had no intention of doing this, not without first making sure that somehow, some way, Santana would be okay. He shook his head vehemently, reaching back to grasp hold of Santana's hand and squeezing hard, keeping her anchored to him. He barely registered that she squeezed back every bit as roughly.

"No. New deal. She comes with me, she can be a guard too or whatever. She can sell drugs. She can, like, dress slutty while selling drugs, she'll probably get more cash for you that way. She can, uh, clean stuff, or whatever…as long as she has clothes on and no one's touching her, she can do whatever the hell you want, as long as I'm there too. We can be dressed alike, we can dress like fucking Star Wars characters if that gets someone off. Only not the Leia bikini look 'cause that's not actually…she's coming with me, though, whatever the hell we do."

"It's very amusing how you think you have a say in this," Remington shook his head, chuckling. The sound of his continued snickering, throughout the entire exchange, grated so badly on Puck's nerves that he found himself gritting his teeth, squeezing Santana's hand until he heard her gasp and had to force himself to loosen it. "See, here's where you're wrong on that, Noah. You had your chance to have things your way…you were allowed to make a deal with me before, a very generous one, at that. You had your money, you had your job, and you had your girl, all to yourself. If you choose to throw that away, well, that was a foolish choice on your part, but no business of mine. Unfortunately, I don't strike new business deals with a boy who's proven himself untrustworthy with them already. What option that leaves me is simply the option to do…well, whatever I want."

His eyes returned to Santana again, and he took another step closer, his smile widening. "And I want to fuck Miss Santana Diabla Lopez."

"Santana, get up!" Puck didn't waste another second as he saw Remington's hand come forward, reaching to grab hold of her. "Go to the bathroom, lock the door, go!"

But even as he released her hand, giving her a shove in that direction, Remington was already seizing hold of her, pinning her down on the bed. As Puck grabbed her right arm, trying to pull her away from him, to draw her back against him, one of his men, Paul, was coming forward at Remington's shouted instruction, to seize Santana's legs, further strengthening Remington's ability to pull her away. The other two men came at Puck, grabbing his arms and forcing them behind his back. As Puck fought to hold onto Santana, scrabbling to clutch at her thin arm, he could see how her skin was twisting and reddening between the grip of so many large, harsh hands grasping at her, could hear her crying out in pain, tears already beginning to stream over her cheeks as she screamed out loud.

"No! No, let me go! Puck, tell them no, take it back! No, no, no! PUCK! LET HIM GO, please, please let him go, PUCK!"

"Santana!" Puck bellowed back, bucking and straining against the men now dragging them towards the stairs, barely feeling the not infrequent blows they dealt him to manage his resistance. "SANTANA! Let her fucking go, get your fucking hands off her, SANTANA!"

He wanted to tell them that he had been wrong. He wanted to tell them that he took it back, that he would do it, he would do anything to her and with her, if they would leave her alone. He wanted to offer them anything in the world that would make them back away, that would make her stop screaming with such raw pain and terror in her voice. He wanted it, but every time he opened his mouth, the only words he could seem to form were a strangled crying out of her name.

He knew as they dragged him up the stairs exactly what would happen to her, exactly what was probably already happening to her that he could not see once at the staircase, no matter how frantically he twisted his head in an effort to try. He knew that whatever the reasoning behind his decision had been, there would be terrible consequences, that he had not thought this through with the necessary precision and planning before carrying it out- even though he had known as well that he could not force himself to harm her, not one more time. He knew this…but he knew too that what was going to happen now was something he could not ever undo, something that he would blame himself for every bit as much as he had blamed himself for his own previous actions. He knew that he would never stop hearing Santana's screams, never stop seeing her face contorted with unvarnished fear as she sobbed aloud for him to come back to her.

He knew there was nothing he could do to help her, not now, not anymore. And Puck hated himself with every bit of his being as he was forced up the stairs and out the cellar door.


	18. Chapter 18

Puck did not handle the separation from Santana well.

The fact that they were making him “work” was more a tactic of a showing of control of him, of both of them, on their part than any actual expectation from them that he would be able to efficiently do or concentrate on any task they might give him. By forcing Puck to come out with them to escort girls, they were proving a point and teaching a lesson more so than actually putting him to work, and he knew with every passing second exactly what they were trying to accomplish. They were punishing him, punishing him and Santana both, but whatever they did to him to try to make him cooperate, it would be nothing compared to what they did to Santana.

Even as they forced him down the hallway, away from the basement door, even when he knew that he was nowhere within earshot to be able to genuinely hear her, Santana’s screams were still ringing in Puck’s ears. It seemed the only sound in all the world that was anywhere within his range of hearing, the only thing he could focus on or react to, and it left him raw from the inside out, his chest aching with genuine physical pain. Although he knew it was more than hopeless, he continued to struggle against the men dragging him forward, still fighting to get free of them, to be able to force his way back to Santana, but they didn’t so much as falter in their progress forward with him, nor was he able to very effectively block himself from the blows they dealt him to keep him under control. Although he felt very little of them in the moment that they happened, by the time they had gotten him to the first girl’s bedroom and almost threw him through the door, Puck was feeling the accumulation of hits all at once and nearly fell to the floor, his legs suddenly aching and weak beneath him. 

He was clearly not a physically imposing presence for the girls that they chose to take out for the night. The men made no commentary to the girls about how or why Puck was bruised and bleeding, barely standing upright without their grips even if he hadn’t also been of a mind to escape if possible. There was no need for explanations for the mere sight of him to be an effective deterrent for anything that any of the girls might have chosen to try against them. Perhaps this was the intention; a lesson for the girls as much as for Puck, a scare tactic stronger than simply Puck’s physical presence had been before. Because if a guy as big as he was could be beaten by people who were, from the girls’ perspective, on the same side against her, then what more might could be done to her, should she step a toe out of line?

 

There hadn’t been too many more physical assaults on him in front of the girls. There was no need for it. By the time they collected the first girl and escorted her to her job for the night, Puck had found himself physically and emotionally drained. He knew there was no further use in protest; it could very well result in the girl or future girls being harmed as well as him, to further up the stakes of his “lesson.” It could mean worse for Santana, and as it was, he knew it was already too late to stop Remington’s assault on her. There was nothing he could do but suffer through it, knowing that Santana was suffering even more, and hope against all hope that after it was all finally over, he would be allowed then to return to her.

Puck was pretty sure that it wasn’t his imagination that it took longer this time for him to go through his “route” with the girls than it had the last time. whether this was because they were taking the girls to more appointments or allowing them to last longer, he didn’t know, but it seemed endless to him, like every second passing was never going to come to an end. As the night dragged on, Puck could feel the injuries dealt to him settling in more and more thoroughly, causing pain with even small movements, but he ignored it all, unable to focus or care. 

It wasn’t until the men dragged him into the kitchen area of one client’s home, disregarding the fact that they usually waited outside the door rather than coming inside, and dug through his refrigerator, removing what alcohol they found and beginning to pass it among themselves, that Puck for the first time focused on something, anything other than Santana and the terrible situation they had found themselves in- no, the situation he had put them in. As they passed the bottles around, knocking back a case between them easily, Puck had found himself staring, not wanting to ask, but almost desperate to be offered. It seemed an incredibly long time since he had drank alcohol, though in all actuality, it had probably been only about a week ago, during the time of Finn’s memorial in Lima. How could that have been such a short time ago, when it seemed more than a lifetime? How could it have been that such a short time ago, his best friend’s death seemed the worst thing that could ever happen to him, the worst he could ever experience- how was it that he had so seldom thought of him in the week that had passed, that there could be even more terrible things to experience that would drive even grief straight out of his thoughts?

Between them the men must have seen him staring at the alcohol assortment they had spread over the counter, because they snickered and held one up tantalizingly, asking him if he wanted it. Puck had tried to play cool, but the next thing he knew, he was at least four or five drinks down and definitely feeling the effects. After having had as little consistent food as he had for as long as he had, and with his recent neglect, due to the lack of Santana’s reminders, to stay fully hydrated, he was considerably more intoxicated from his amount than he would have been under normal circumstances.   
By the time the men had wrapped up for the night, Puck had managed to wrangle another beer out of them at the last stop as well, and he was feeling absolutely no physical pain anymore even as they continued to grip him harder than necessary and handle him with unneeded roughness to move him along. As they finally deposited him back at the basement stairs, nearly shoving him through the door before locking it behind them, one of them called out a sneering remark to him that Puck didn’t register or remember later. It was much more slowly than usual that he navigated the stairs in the semi darkness, holding the railing the whole way. Head spinning, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, not even thinking to look for or call out to Santana until he had reached the stairway’s bottom and he could clearly see her in front of him.

 

Santana was lying on the bed, her back turned to Puck, curled into a loose ball. Although she surely must have heard Puck approaching, as slow and heavy as his footsteps had been, she didn’t turn her head or call out. Perhaps she thought it was Remington returning, or perhaps she was simply too emotionally spent to care one way or the other. She lay there, her back visibly moving with each shallow exhalation, and Puck could see looking at her that she was clad only in her shirt and underwear, her pants and bra discarded on the floor. It was as though she had reached blindly for the easiest clothing to put back on and given up dressing herself more thoroughly, simply wanting something to cover herself with partially again. The sheet was only partly wound around her, covering only her legs and hips, and when Puck staggered a few more steps towards her, finally calling out her name in a hoarse croak, Santana still didn’t turn her head. 

 

When he called for her again, stumbling towards her and having to catch himself on the headboard of the bed, Santana continued to ignore him, though she surely recognized his voice by then. 

 

Puck leaned over her, hearing his own breath rasping in cacophony with hers, but he could not see her face. She was still keeping herself turned away from him as much as possible, hiding herself from his view, and he reached for her thoughtlessly, taking hold of her shoulder and attempting to roll her back towards him where he could more easily see her. Santana made a noise almost like a hiss, reaching up with the same arm he had touched and pushing out at him, but the gesture was weak and ineffective, and Puck easily managed to turn her body to face him. As soon as he could see her, though admittedly through faintly blurred vision, he wished he had left her be, as she had obviously wanted, because looking at Santana then made his stomach lurch, and not simply due to his overindulgence of alcohol. 

“Shit,” he breathed, swallowing noisily, and he felt his mouth go dry. “What the fuck happened…”

 

“What the fuck does it look like happened?” Santana shot back, her voice raw and hoarse. She sounded as if it was painful to even talk, as though she had screamed so much she had lost her voice, and even as the thought occurred to Puck, he realized with slow horror churning his guts that this was probably true. “Do the fucking math, Puck, I know you’re not the brightest bulb in the hardware store, but even you can work this equation. What the fuck do you think happened?”

 

He could see it, of course, and she was right, it wasn’t a difficult deduction to make. But it was one that Puck didn’t want to think about, a drawing of conclusions that he didn’t want to so much as cross his mind. So he stood there, swaying slightly, his hand still gripping the headboard of the bed as he partly leaned over Santana, his other hand just barely touching her shoulder, and blinked down at her, a muscle flexing in his jaw as his eyes unwillingly took in the damage wreaked upon her.

He had not looked into a mirror since having been forced out of the basement, but he was sure he couldn’t look very good himself. He had, upon seeing Santana, completely managed to block out the pain his own injuries caused him with every small movement, but he knew vaguely that when she looked at him through her slitted eyes, she must be seeing cuts and contusions, drying blood and darkened bruises, that made it obvious that he had been beaten. She showed no reaction to observing this in him, however, as she might have before, and he couldn’t say, given the extent of her own appearance, that he could blame her for it. 

 

Her lip was cut, swollen, dark blood drying in its split flesh, and there was blood around her chin as well. Her eye was bruising, the eyebrow split and containing flecks of drying blood as well, and her cheekbone also seemed to be in the process of bruising. Although she was wearing a shirt, Puck could see marks on her throat and upper chest- hickeys, and what looked like a possible bite mark as well, right above her left breast. Dark bruises in the shape of rough male fingers were clearly displayed on her arms, and as Puck’s eyes continued to drift over her, taking all this in, Santana made only minimal effort to cover herself, tugging at the sheet, but not with enough strength to actually yank it entirely over herself. 

 

Puck sucked in his breath, a strangled noise emerging from his throat. On impulse he reached out to get a better grip on her, intending to pull her up to a sitting position, then to her feet, wanting to take her into his arms and comfort her, to try to soothe the angry colors of her skin, to somehow attempt with gentler touch to take away or make up for the abuse it had endured. But Santana cried out, pulling away, and this time her shove at him was harder, more insistent.

“Don’t touch me, leave me the fuck alone!”

“What…what did they do?” Puck muttered, his hands still half extended towards her, hanging awkwardly in the air before he let them drift slowly back down to his sides. Even though he could clearly see for himself, without it being said aloud, without him being forced to hear it and confront its reality in this way, he could still manage to partly keep himself in the dark, to hold out a semblance of hope that it wasn’t as it appeared. “What happened, what the hell…”  
“What the fuck do you think happened, Puckerman?!” Santana almost spat, her eyes so dark they appeared black, with almost no different between iris and pupil. She sat up then, her back ramrod straight and stiff as she glared at him, head tilted forward towards him in an aggressive fashion even as her chin dropped nearly to touch her chest. “Open your fucking eyes and take a wild guess here, or is your vision too blurred to be able to make out anything but your own dying brain cells? Yeah, Puck, I can see that you’re fucking drunk. I don’t know if you think you’re smooth and clever and getting one over on me, but I recognize someone who’s plastered and you’re breathing your fucking dragon breath all over me and it’s going to make me puke if your eyes rolling around your head like a seizure patient or your sweaty man paws touching up on me doesn’t first. I don’t know if you can put two and two together since that involves math and math involves thinking and planning skills beyond that of a first grader which you clearly don’t possess, but here’s how it is. While you were out there partying it up with your new pals Lurch, Frankenstein, and Steroids, drinking yourself into a stupor even greater than your average daily experience, probably fucking any girl with tits you happened to be terrifying as part of your fucking JOB description, while you were out there just having yourself a ballbuster of a time, I was in here getting used as a punching bag and a blow up doll. While you were out fucking around, I was the one being literally fucked around. Can you add up the fucking equation now, Puckerman, or do I have to get even more explicit with the directions? Do you fucking get it now?”

Puck flinched, turning not only his head, but his full body away from her. He didn’t want to look at her anymore, didn’t want to listen to her or hear even one word of what she had to say. When she made reference to being “fucked around,” he felt a shaking start up at his shoulders and spread down his arms, through his torso, and down his legs until he had to lean against the bed for support. He shook his head, wanting to deny what he was hearing, to keep himself from understanding it, wanting to simply block her words and all the evidence supporting them from his awareness. But even with his face turned from Santana he could still picture her in his mind, even as his pulse pounded at his temples, somewhat distracting from her voice, she was speaking loudly and intently enough that he couldn’t entirely block her out. Continuing to shake his head, Puck heard a noise escape his throat, an odd strangled cry that sounded something like both a growl and a sob. He didn’t respond to her verbally, couldn’t have found the words to do it with. Santana was asking him angrily if he wanted more details, but Puck couldn’t even handle the few details he could pick up on just from having looked at her, let alone any additional ones she might inform him of to round out the hazy but still too clear picture forming in his mind. 

 

“Why are you shaking your head?” Santana asked him, her tone harsh, aggressive. It sounded like she was leaning closer to him, trying to force him to hear her, or maybe to look at her while she was talking to him, her voice rising as she went on. “You don’t want to know, Puck? Is it too much for you to hear, or too much to look at me and see? I’m the one they did it to, Puck, and you don’t even want to know about it, that’s too much for YOU?! They raped me, Puck, they fucking raped me, that’s what happened and you can’t deny it or make it go away by standing there shaking your damn head like a fucking bobblehead dog!”

 

Even though Santana had commanded him not to continue doing so, Puck kept shaking his head, harder and harder, jaw clinched, eyes almost shut, as though if he simply continued to nonverbally deny, he could somehow undo everything he was hearing, make it all unreal and untrue. His head pounded painfully with this gesture, and his stomach churned, his vision continuing to blur frequently as he kept trying to force back the heavy, hot weight pressing harder and harder against his chest, at the back of his eyes, as though a force stronger than he was able to contain was trying to erupt from beneath his skin. Puck’s entire body was shaking now even as he continued to shake his head, barely keeping himself upright, and he did not see Santana reach out to grab him, long finger nails digging into his bicep as she shook him as forcefully as she was able. 

“Aren’t you going to fucking say something, Puckerman?! Do you even give a shit, did you hear a word I said, or are you so drunk off your ass that all you can hear is the alcohol sloshing around in your head?” She shook him again, her voice rising almost to a scream as she went on. “How the hell can you go out and get drunk when they’re doing this to me?! How the hell can you go out and just drink yourself into even more of a stupor than your fucking natural state of being, how can you make yourself that much weaker when they can already beat the shit out of you when you’re sober? How can you go out and just have a blast drinking with the fucking enemy, literally the FUCKING ENEMY, when they’re in here doing this to me? You asshole, how the hell can you go get DRUNK!?”

She hit him with her fist in the bicep this time, hard enough that it looked as though she would have hurt her wrist with its impact more than she actually hurt him. Puck for his part didn’t even feel it. He blinked at her, trying to process what she was saying, to follow along with the speed, volume, and intensity of her words and finding difficulty. He swallowed, opening his mouth in an effort to try to find some sort of reply to give back to her, but the only response that came to his mind was “stop,” a directive that Santana seemed to have absolutely no intention of heeding.   
Throat choking, his eyes hot and suddenly moist with what Puck only vaguely knew to be continued unshed tears, he shook his head at her again, which only further provoked Santana’s rage.

“Don’t keep shaking your head at me, don’t you even try to fucking deny it, I know you’re fucking drunk! I can smell you from the staircase and you can’t even look at me without your eyes crossing back and forth and rolling back into your skull! How can you do this, Noah Puckerman, how can you go out and just have yourself a good time, how can you just forget all about me in here and just go around partying it up, probably fucking whatever girl they throw your way-“

“I wasn’t,” Puck managed finally, weakly shoving at Santana’s hands in an effort to make her loosen or let go of her hold on him, but she hung on, if anything only tightening up her grip that much more. 

 

“Like hell you weren’t, don’t even try to lie to me. Don’t tell me you weren’t out there throwing them back, slapping each other on the ass like a bunch of overgrown frat boys, shouting back and forth to each other about all the whores you’ve fucked and how you put it to them, what were you doing, Puck, comparing notes? Were you letting them know all the ways you’ve had me and exactly what it takes to make me scream, were you giving them tips of the trade so whenever it’s their turn, they can really have some fun? Now that you’re on the side of the fucking enemy, trading shots and getting initiated into their little fuck festival, is that what you do?”

Her voice was shaking badly now, and even though he was trying not to look at her at all, even as his vision continued to blur repeatedly with the addition of the frequent appearance of tears in his eyes, before he could force them back down again, Puck could see her chin quivering, her throat working as if Santana too was trying not to cry. Her hands were shaking in their grasp of him now, her touch loosening, and he couldn’t take even a second more of being touched by her, of being that close to her. He couldn’t hear one more word of accusation from her, couldn’t bear to see how genuinely she seemed to think that he would for one second forget her, let alone deliberately turn his back on her, and so he finally pulled away from her, staggering towards the opposite wall and nearly tripping over his own feet with every step.

 

“No…I wasn’t,” he choked out, hearing his own voice slurring, cracking, barely intelligible even to his own ears. “Wasn’t…fun…wasn’t fucking…”

 

He was facing completely away from her, walking with slow, unsteady steps towards the wall, no real destination in mind except away from Santana. When Puck heard her begin to cry, the rough, breaking noise of her breathing undeniably partly suppressed sobbing, he felt his skin burn with helpless pain for her, with a self-directed loathing that left him nearly unable to move. 

He wanted to go to her, to put his arms around her and hold her, to soothe her and protect and comfort her as she so obviously needed. But it couldn’t happen. If she wouldn’t thrust him away, infuriated and disgusted by his touch, he himself would not be able to bring himself to do it or even to try. She was right, he didn’t deserve to touch her, he had no right to it. This had been his failed, careless plan, decided with no real analysis of consequence or alternatives, and this had been his failure, at least of his perception, to protect her. She could not remember now, while hurting so badly, that he had done this in an effort to keep from being the one to hurt her, and Puck himself could take no comfort or moral satisfaction in this either. All he could think, feel, and understand now was that she was in enormous pain, that she had been used and abused in exactly the way he had sworn to her she never would be, and no matter what he had promised her, so far he had managed to break every single one of his own words.

 

Every loud, shuddering breath Santana drew in, every sob she released out was like a knife in Puck’s heart, twisting in more deeply with each time. As he stood turned away from her, every muscle tightly drawn, he wanted than more than anything he had ever wanted in his life to hurt every single one of the men who had in any way been involved in causing Santana the pain he was having to witness and hear in her now. He felt in that moment that drunk and dehydrated or not, smaller and less muscular or not, he would be able simply through the force of his adrenaline and rage to beat every single one of them on his own, no weapons necessary. 

But even more than he wanted to hurt them, he wanted to hurt himself. It seemed only fair to find a way to hurt as she was hurting, only right somehow to release out in himself a physical pain to give some sort of vent to the emotional pain filling every bit of his being. No matter that he had already been injured; this seemed nothing, incomparable, considering its source. In his drunken lack of reasoning in that moment, it seemed to Puck that the only thing he could do then was to strike out at himself in some way, to hurt himself further in some pitiful retaliation of Santana’s hurt. 

 

He was facing a wall, his breathing rasping in and out faster and faster, and before he had quite even had the thought to do so, he found his fists shooting forward, beginning to repeatedly pound into the wall in a semi frenzied manner. His feet soon joined his fists, until Puck was both hitting and kicking the wall with only occasional grunts to punctuate the blows.

He had no concept of the amount of time he might have been lashing out at the grey stony material of the wall, no estimation of how many times his fists or feet flew forward to strike its surface. He didn’t hear Santana calling his name until she was nearly screaming, her voice verging on the edge of hysteria, and even then he had to hit the wall a few more times before he could bring himself to a stop. Bending forward slightly, bracing himself against the wall with a hand shaking so badly his entire arm quivered with the strain of the attempted support, Puck struggled to catch his breath even as his heart beat wildly out of rhythm in his chest. As Santana’s sobbed voicing of his name continued, he began to realize that his toes ached nearly to the point of being unable to stand, that his knuckles were scraped raw and bleeding fairly profusely. When he finally turned his head, he saw that Santana was huddled on the bed, eyes bright with genuine fear that he could not interpret as being of him, or for him, as tears streamed unchecked down her face, her chest heaving with gasping sobs that left her almost unable to catch her breath. 

She looked so small and frightened then, so completely hopeless, even as she half shouted to him again, one hand partly covering her mouth as though not wanting him to hear her crying even as the evidence of it streaked undeniably over her face. “S-stop it…Puck, stop, stop….stop, just stop, stop…”

Puck looked at her, slumped and bruised and weeping, small and alone and in every kind of pain he could imagine in the middle of the bed, and everything about her then hit him so hard he could no longer even attempt to keep it back. He doubled over as though he had been hit, bringing both bleeding knuckles to his eyes, and he pressed the heels of his hands in hard, but nothing he did could keep tears from exploding out of his eyes, nothing could hold back the ugly, grinding noise of the sobs that came…nothing could prevent her from seeing, even as he tried to instruct her to look away.

“Fuck…oh….fuck…don’t look at me, don’t…stop, stop looking at me. Stop…” 

 

Puck’s voice cracked again, and he dug the heels of his hands more firmly against his eyes, trying desperately to push back the tears that were entirely impervious to his efforts. He could hear Santana crying too, still several feet away from him on the bed, and he knew that she was probably staring at him, if she could bring herself to look at him at all. For a few moments the two of them cried without words, far apart from each other, no one looking anyone in the eye, somehow both connected and remote in their pain.

“I’m sorry,” Puck started to chant under his breath after almost a minute had gone by, his words rough and slurred together, running into each other almost as a single phrase as he remained hunched over, his back heaving with choked breaths. “I’m sorry sorrysorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, fuck sorry I’m sorry…”

When his voice cut off, overtaken by a fresh wave of tears, Santana’s voice could finally, faintly be heard. He couldn’t have known whether she too had been speaking and he had simply not heard her, or whether she was waiting until there was a break in his words to talk as well. Her voice was softer, broken in tone, and Puck could not have brought himself to turn to look at her then, even had she asked.

“They…they raped me,” she managed, the words sounding different now than all the times she had said them before, entirely lacking the anger and aggression with which she had thrown them at him. “Puck…they…they hurt me, they…they…”

Her voice broke, and for another minute or two neither spoke, caught up in their separate crying, together in the room, semi joined in pain, but nowhere close to being joined with each other physically. It seemed an eternity to Puck, but in reality it was likely no more than another minute or so before Santana took in several deep breaths, gulping back any further threatening sobs as she bowed her head, regaining control of herself. She wiped her eyes, and then sniffling, rubbed her runny nose with the back of her hand, wiping it off on the hem of her shirt, still slumped, seeming too exhausted in demeanor to care at all about hygiene or even more fully dressing herself yet. Then she hugged herself, her elbows cupped, arms crossed tightly over her chest, taking several more breaths in before raising her eyes to look up at Puck. 

As Santana took this time to try to calm down, Puck continued to face away from her, his crying easing, but not entirely stopping. He remained hunched over, heedless of the pain this caused his reinjured ribs, barely even feeling his raw knuckles anymore as his head throbbed steadily in rhythm with his dwindling sobs. It wasn’t until Santana called his name several times, slightly louder each time, before he finally lifted bloodshot eyes and turned partway to face her, shuddering slightly as he took in the sight of her wounded face again.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she whispered, swallowing visibly. “Just…just don’t. Please don’t.”

Puck wasn’t sure of how he was looking at her, exactly, and he had neither the control nor the logical mindset currently to be able to change it. Instead he simply dropped his eyes, swallowing as well and again scrubbing his fists into his eyes as he too tried to reign himself in. He could hear an occasional rasping breath escape despite his efforts as Santana continued to struggle on, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Please…please let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s just…please, don’t look at me…don’t touch me…please. Just…I just…I just want to go to sleep. I just want to go to sleep, please…”

She sniffed hard, rubbing her hand over her face again and taking in another slow breath before finishing. “Puck, I don’t…I don’t care anymore why you’re drunk or what you were doing or…I don’t care about that, I don’t care about anything. Please, just…I just want to sleep. Just…can you just…watch me? Can you…just while I’m asleep. Can you just…try to protect me while I sleep? Please…”

Puck knew what she was asking. He couldn’t say he blamed her for being tired, for wanting to just let unconsciousness come over her for a while so she could at least for a few hours forget everything that had happened, everything that had been done to her. It wasn’t a lot to ask of him, to stand or sit near her while she slept and just try to make her feel a little bit safer, to make her feel like if someone came in and tried to get in bed with her, he would stop them or at least warn them. But even that small request of him was too much, more than he thought he could handle or provide, more than he could promise. How could he promise her anything now after failing so spectacularly with his previous promises?

 

"I can’t protect you, Santana." The words are low at first, aimed more towards the floor than at the girl in front of him, but when he repeats himself, he speaks more loudly,with increasing heat and intensity to their tone, and then he is lifting his face, his eyes boring directly into hers, almost shouting. "I can’t protect you! Isn’t that fucking obvious? There’s nothing I can fucking do to help you! I tried, I fucking tried and all they have to do is send in those fucking steroidedfuckhead giants and pin me down and stick shit in my neck and beat the living shit out of me and I can’t do shit about it! Did you not see that, do you not get it, THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO TO HELP YOU! I can’t keep them from doing ANYTHING to you! They can take you whenever they want, however they want, any fucking time, any fucking place and I CAN’T DO SHIT TO STOP IT!" 

By then Puck was outright hollering. He’s not angry with Santana, of course, but she is the only person there, and so she is now receiving the brunt of his emotion. 

He couldn’t’ keep looking at her. He couldn’t continue to face her and see the shocked expression on her face, couldn’t see the fear and emotion welling in her eyes. He couldn’t face her with his own self-loathing, his own guilt, and so, unable to contain himself any longer, he jumps up, coming towards her so that Santana gasps and presses herself further against the mattress, as though expecting Puck to hit her or hurt her in some way.

That as much as anything got to him. Now Santana’s expectations for him had sunk that much lower; she would equate him now with one of them, he was sure of it, or why else would she react like that? She had questioned him before when he had said he wasn’t like them, and unconsciously she was still questioning him now, even when he tried to take a stand to prove that he was not. At least, that was what it seemed like to Puck, and as he took her by the upper arms, pulling her to her feet and setting her apart from the bed, not forcefully, but nevertheless still physically removing her from her previous position, he could feel her shaking even in the brief time that he was making physical contact with her. He wouldn’t have thought he could hate himself much more, but he was finding just how possible it was to keep finding new levels to his self-disgust.

Still driven strictly by adrenaline, Puck took the mattress, ripping it off the bed, and then lifted one end of the bed up and slamming it up and down into the ground. Still not finished, he overturned the bed, lifted it back, and shoved it hard against the wall, picking up the mattress again and slamming it back down onto the bed before punching it repeatedly. With one final kick against the bedframe, he only then realized that somewhere in the midst of this he had begun to cry again without restraint, harsh sobs shaking through him, making him sound as though he were choking on his own breaths. His shoulders slumped, Puck leaned against the wall, closing his eyes, half hiding his face behind one hand as all adrenaline began to fade rapidly. Beginning to sag down to the floor, still leaned against the wall, he sobbed roughly into one hand, not looking at Santana. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t protect you, I couldn’t…I’m so fucking sorry…I can’t fucking protect you, I never could. I tried and I never could…I can’t. I’m so sorry…”

Somewhere in the midst of his outburst, Santana had continued to back away from Puck until her back hit a wall, and she had let herself slide down it until she was sitting, knees drawn up, on the floor. He didn’t turn to look at her, but he could hear her crying even through his own tears, softly at first, then with increasing volume and intensity. It wasn’t until Puck’s own words had trailed off again that she spoke, her voice ripped apart with her own tears, soft at first, then rising almost to a wail.

“Stop…please, stop, PLEASE! Stop, stop, stop…”

She sobbed aloud several times, almost choking, and then there was anger taking over her tone, her near begging tone strengthening with new strident rage until she was almost yelling at him, her tears lessened considerably as she refocused her feelings in a new direction. Puck could hear her hitting her own leg with her fist for emphasis and wanted to tell her to stop, that she was hurting herself, but he would not have been heard over her own words.

“You promised me, Puck…you promised you’d protect me. You promised you wouldn’t give up, you promised…now after all this, you’re giving up. You’re fucking GIVING UP! Fuck you for giving up! Fuck you for not protecting me! Fuck you…no! No, don’t you dare…don’t you DARE give up, no! I…I need you, Puck, I fucking need you…I can’t do this. I can’t do this by myself. Don’t you dare fucking give up.”

There were tears dripping down her chin again, but she doesn’t bother to wipe them away, her voice dropping, the anger gone again as she lays out her final blow. “If you’re giving up…if you give up now, just kill me. Just go ahead and fucking kill me because I can’t do this by myself. I won’t.”

She meant it. Puck knew that she meant it, could hear the conviction in her tone. If he would not at least try for her, she wanted to die, and he couldn’t say that he blamed her. If it wasn’t for her, and any tiny chance remaining that he could help her, that he could do anything at all to make things even a little bit better for her, he would want to die too. 

But she was here. She was here, and as much as he doubted he could do anything at all to benefit her, anything but hurt her more, he wanted…no, he needed to try to believe otherwise. He needed to try, so Puck dragged his hand away from his face, sucking in his breath, and slowly turned to face her, even as tears continued to drop steadily onto his collar bone from his slightly hanging head.

 

He looks at her for a few more minutes, her last words echoing dimly in his thoughts. He can’t ever hurt her, not again, not anymore, let alone kill her. It wasn’t an option, so with another shuddering sob escaping him, he slowly begins to scoot towards her. His hand on her shoulder is very light at first, tentative, but then, ignoring any protests, not currently caring whether or not she wants it, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her tight to his chest. “I’m sorry.Santana, I’m sorry…I’m…I’m gonna try…I could never hurt you. You can’t fucking die on me, you can’t do that shit…I’m sorry.” He tried to rock her with unrhythmic awkwardness, lowering his face into her hair. “Fuck...”

He realized his mistake when Santana stiffened against him, a sharp, near panicked gasp escaping her, and she elbowed his side, not hard or with intent to hurt him, but simply trying to get him to let go of her. She was shaking again, her hands pushing at him even as Puck, confused, squinted at her, reluctant to let go or scoot away. 

“D-don’t touch me…” she pulled her knees again to her chest, hugging them tightly to herself as though to further prevent him, as much as possible, from hugging her. Tears were again running down her cheeks as she shook her head at him, sniffing hard, taking a shaking breath in that didn’t quite release out. “Please…not now…I’m sorry. I’m sorry, just…I can…I can still feel him…on me, and…”

She cut herself off, her head bowing down to her knees, and for several moments she shook, seeming to be trying desperately to hold herself together even as the soft noise of her breaking breaths nearly assaulted Puck’s ears. He clinched his fists, barely feeling the pull of his torn skin, until she finally lifted her head, her eyes red and still seeping occasional tears, her face flushed, but nevertheless somewhat more controlled as she addressed him hoarsely.

“I’m sorry. I just…I just want to sleep. Please just…I just want to sleep.”

Fighting his continued instinct to go to her, to try to comfort her with the touch she had made so clear she did not want, Puck clamped his hands down onto his legs as though to stop them from reaching out towards her of their own accord, trying and failing to pull himself fully together again as he sniffed hard. Every word she was saying is absolutely killing him to hear, to picture in his head as taking place, especially now that he’s seen the corresponding marks on her body. And she was still crying, the only thing he could possibly think of to do was to try to physically comfort her, and if she wouldn’t let him do that…what the hell could he possibly do for her? Nothing. There was nothing he could do. 

“I…Santana, I…I won’t hurt you,” he said hoarsely, swallowing thickly and managing then to choke back the rest of his tears, though it still hurt to swallow around the emotions he is still fighting down. “I promise you, I’ll never hurt you. I’ll…you can kill me first, you hear me? You kill me before you let me hurt you.”

"You can have the bed," he said after swallowing again, slowly getting to his feet and moving to piece it back together. "I’m sorry…you can have it. I’m not gonna sleep…I’ll…I’ll protect you." He knew damn well if the men really wanted to keep him from it, he wouldn’t be able to, but he has to try.  
After a few minutes, once Puck had put the mattress and sheets back on the bed the best that he could manage, Santana got up slowly, her movements pained. He made sure to keep back a distance from her as she got into bed, lying down and curling up in a ball, tugging the sheet over herself and closing her eyes. When Puck sat down at the foot of the bed, drawing his knees to his chest and leaning his head back, he told himself with resolve, even through the continued pounding of his head and his remaining somewhat intoxicated state, that he would indeed remain watchful throughout the night, whatever he had to do to insure it.

For maybe an hour or so he listened to Santana’s breathing even out, then her faint snoring begin, and he found comfort in it, hoping she was getting the rest she needed. But it wasn’t long after that he found his own head drooping forward, his eyes drifting shut as he too gave in to sleep.

He couldn’t have said how much time had passed before he felt gentle hands shaking him, a murmured voice calling out his name. As Puck’s eyes cracked open, Santana whispered to him again, tugging at his upper arms. 

“Puck…you can sleep, it’s okay. Just get in bed.”

His movements slow, heavy with his groggy state, Puck got up obediently, lying down beside her. When Santana lay back down, there was slight distance between them, and as he drifted back off, he had taken no time to register that she had not sounded angry or disappointed, not anymore, despite his previous vows to stay awake to protect her.


	19. Chapter 19

Puck awakened the next morning aware first only of the persistent aching of his muscles, the slightly dulled pain in his ribs and face and chest, the steady pounding of his temples, of the dryness in his mouth and throat and the faint queasiness in his stomach of a fairly typical hangover. For the first several seconds he simply processed this, swallowing several times in an effort to stave off this discomfort, before he then began to notice a feeling of an odd numbness in his arm. When he tried to move it, not opening his eyes, he realized that there was a weight pinning it down, a weight that was also spread out over part of his chest, his shoulder, and his leg. The weight was slight but nevertheless enough to make an impact, and it took him another several moments of slight disorientation before he realized that it was Santana’s body, half covering him, that was touching him.

She appeared to be asleep, judging from the steady feel of her breaths against his upper chest and the slow rise and fall of her chest against his ribcage, hurting him just a little, where he had been injured, with every breath. Her body was warm and relaxed against his, and he realized after a few more moments of slowly returning to the waking world that she was still wearing only her shirt and underwear, that he could feel the warmth of her bare legs very distinctly even through the material of his jeans.

Realizing this, and then remembering somewhat groggily how opposed Santana had been to touching him earlier, Puck attempted to pull away from her slowly, trying to extract himself from beneath her. But Santana stirred, murmuring a sleepy protest under her breath and grabbing hold of his shirt with her fingers, entwining them in its material as she nuzzled her face into his chest. Her body shifted as she did this, spreading over him even more fully, and Puck found himself growing considerably more alert in response to her, sucking in his breath at this nearly full body contact. 

“San…” he whispered, lifting the arm she wasn’t covering with her body and gingerly bringing it up to touch her shoulder. “Do you want to move?”

But Santana just shook her head, tucking her head even more firmly against him and mumbling again, so in the end Puck just lay back, riding out the faint pain from his headache and the more persistent pain of his injuries, and Santana’s body pressed into some of them. For what seemed a considerable amount of time they lay together, the only noise the slightly heightened sounds of their breathing, before Santana finally muttered into his chest, her voice muffled and indistinct.

“Your shirt smells.”

Puck smiled slightly, feeling his cheekbones protest the movement but not flinching from the pain it brought him. He shrugged the shoulder not trapped under Santana, replying, “Your whole body smells.”

She gave a faint snort into his chest, still not lifting her head. “Yours is worse. You weren’t great with hygiene before, and now that you don’t have cologne to attempt to cover it up, it’s going to kill my brain cells controlling smell, one whiff at a time.”

Puck rolled his eyes at her, lifting one hand and resting it on her hair without verbally responding. For another few moments they fell into quiet, neither moving. If she didn’t want to move, or want him to, he wasn’t about to ask her to. For one thing, it would mean breaking the relative tentative relaxation they had managed, the greater comfort with each other than there had been the night before. For another, it would probably freakin’ hurt.

“You should get some water,” Santana murmured to Puck eventually, and he nodded, his chin brushing the top of her head with the gesture as he swallowed, still very much aware of the dry, pasty taste in his mouth.

“Yeah.You too, San. Should eat too, you didn’t most of yesterday.”

Santana nodded but didn’t move, didn’t so much as lift her head. Puck didn’t push her any further; she would get up when she was ready, and until then, he had no objections to letting her stay so close, if it gave her any kind of comfort or security at all. He couldn’t say that it didn’t for himself, so he said nothing, letting her call the shots. Even if his ribs protested more as time went by.

After a considerable length of time, Santana finally began to ease off of Puck, slowly retracting from him and sitting up. She stretched, flinching at the movement as though it caused her some pain, and began to walk slowly towards the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Puck sat up, flinching as well at the pull of his muscles and the temporary increased intensity to the pain in his head, and he listened faintly to the noises of Santana using the bathroom, then running water from behind the closed door. When the bathroom door opened again, she returned holding a dampened towel in one hand and one of the Gatorade bottles that had been used to drug them with, now full of water. Offering the bottle out to him, she watched him drink, then drank some of herself, before handing back the rest for him to finish off. Santana bent to pick up her jeans, putting them back on before sitting on the edge of the bed, squinting at Puck’s face. 

“You’ll live,” she judged, nevertheless reaching to gently begin to cleanse it off the best she could with the dampened towel. More bruised than cut or bloodied, she finished quickly, careful with her touch to hurt him as little as possible, before gesturing towards his chest. “Shirt off.”

“You need to let me clean you up too,” Puck told her, eyeing her bruised and battered face and arms, but Santana ignored him, again gesturing for him to take off his shirt. He did as she asked, again trying not to show any more pain than absolutely necessary. He nevertheless saw Santana’s face stiffen as she took in his considerably bruised torso, and when she ran her fingertips gingerly over his ribs, testing for breaks, she thinned her lips, shaking her head. 

“Can’t do anything about it. Just…try not to move, I guess.” She gestured for him to put his shirt back on, then sat still for Puck, her face still tensed as he wiped hers down for her the best he could, taking care to be gentle. He noticed her flinching and leaning away nevertheless before he stopped, handing her the Gatorade to finish the last swallow left. He went to fill it again this time, returning and watching her drink before drinking again himself. Sitting down on the bed, resting his hands on his thighs and now keeping a careful distance apart from Santana, who sat beside him, looking to her hands in her lap, he exhaled, saying nothing until she finally broke the silence.

“What do we do now?”

Sliding his eyes to her, Puck regarded her for a moment or two, assessing her, before responding. “We’re gonna have to kill them.”

Perhaps she had been asking a rhetorical question; perhaps she simply hadn’t expected such an intense response from him. But whatever the case, Santana blinked, eyebrows lifting.

“What?”

“Or hurt them bad enough we can get away,” Puck offered, thinking aloud to himself more than responding to Santana. “But they’re obviously not gonna let us just waltz out the door on our own. So that’s obviously what we’re gonna have to do.”

“Did you manage to work out a “how” somewhere in there, considering how there’s four of them and two of us, and they have guns while we have our bare hands?” Santana pointed out dryly, and Puck nodded absently, still thinking through possibilities as he spoke.

“Yeah, I got that, ‘Tana. Still working on that. Maybe…maybe we can drag the bed near the bathroom, block off the door…no, no, wait. We get in the bathroom and drag the door in front of it, block it off so they can’t get in-“

“Puck, again, four of them, three of them with huge muscles, and Remington is no weakling either,” Santana pointed out, spitting out his name like it was a bitter taste in her mouth. “They can move a freaking bed.”

“Yeah, but it slows them down, see. So once they finally get the door open, we…we’ve taken apart the toilet seat, right, and we hit them with it. Then-“

“We take apart the toilet seat with what, our bare hands?” Santana scoffed, eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline. “And we hit all four of them in one blow, hard enough to kill? From the narrow bathroom doorway? We lock ourselves in the bathroom, even with a gun in hand, we just trapped ourselves in with no escape. We’re backed into a corner. Think again, Boy Wonder.”

“Okay, fine…we take the bed apart, then,” Puck backtracked, running a hand absently through his hair. “We can hit them from the middle of the room with parts of it-“

“Again, they have guns, and how are we tearing apart a metal bedframe with our bare hands?”

“Well I don’t see you coming up with any brilliant plots, see if you can do better,” Puck shot back at her, some genuine annoyance creeping into his tone. 

“Didn’t say I could,” Santana responded, her tone flat, factual. “I’m just telling you…that won’t work. And if anything will…hell if I can come up with it right now.”

Hearing the change in her tone, Puck looked over at her, taking in her slightly stooped shoulders, her stony expression, and for the moment, forgot his headache and his exhaustion, his frustration and his stress. He forgot everything but how tired and sad she looked, and he briefly touched her arm, lowering his voice.   
“We’ll figure something out, San. We can do this…we have to do this, so we will.”

He hesitated, then kissed the top of her head when she didn’t pull her arm away. He watched Santana release a slow sigh, and when her hand slowly moved a few inches over, her fingers touching his, he twined their fingers gently, holding her hand. 

They would have to. He didn’t know when or how, but somehow, in some way, they had to get out. Whatever it took, whoever had to go down for it, if it was the last thing he did in his life, Puck had to get Santana, at the very least, out of this.

**  
From Puck’s best estimate, it was at least a couple of hours before the basement door opened again and he could hear the familiar noise of feet descending the stairs, approaching them. Santana had been leaned against him at this point, her shoulder under his arm, her fingers lightly wrapped around his wrist, but she pulled away when she heard them, her arms wrapping tightly around herself, her head bowing down as though she were trying to avoid meeting their eyes. Puck could see her shaking and wanted to wrap his arms around her, to try to give what meager comfort he could provide her, to protect her from them and their looks or sneering words as much as he possibly could, even if his efforts amounted to very little at all. But Santana had pulled away, she obviously didn’t want him to hold her or touch her in front of them, for whatever reasons she had not shared, so he stayed slightly apart from her, allowing her to make this decision for herself.

There were only two men with Remington his time, Vincent and Paul, with Jeremiah absent, but Puck didn’t care. Sure, the odds might be slightly less against them with one man missing, but they certainly weren’t in his and Santana’s favor and never would be. It was still three men, armed with weapons and at full strength and health, versus the two of them, half starved, injured, and smaller, especially in Santana’s case. There was no chance whatsoever of fighting back, and yet for a few moments Puck entertained the idea, his mind clicking through even the wildest possibilities of how he could try.

There were no cameras in their hands, no laptops, not that Puck had truly expected there to be. Now that he had nixed the deal of him sleeping with Santana, there could be no expected pattern. Although Paul had two Burger King bags in his hands, it was entirely possible that they would not give them the food until the two of them had completed whatever task they asked of them. There were no rules now; that had been made clear to Puck. For all he knew, he would be expected to remain in the room, held down by the guards as Remington made Santana “earn” the food she would probably be too sickened to even want to eat afterward.

Puck said nothing, jaw set, as he waited for the men to reveal to him their plan. He kept his eyes on them, forcing his fists to remain at his sides, forcing himself not to stand or get into a defensive posture in front of Santana. He waited, trying not to provoke them in any way to go any further than they had already decided to, as Remington smirks towards them both from only a few feet in front of them, his eyes scanning each of them up and down.

“Hungry?” he asked almost conversationally, and when neither responded, Puck hearing a faint catch in Santana’s breathing as she unconsciously moved a little closer to him, he had to fight with everything he had not to wrap his arms around her, whatever his silent vow to himself not to. “Eat up, got to keep up your strength, don’t you? Wouldn’t want either one of you to be unable to perform those duties you’re just so good at, wouldn’t want to have to cut our losses with you being unable to earn your keep.”

He nodded towards Paul, indicating without words for him to pass out the bags of food, and the man tossed them to the bed, almost hitting Puck’s chest with his throw. 

“Eat,” Remington instructed, his voice leaving no room for instruction. “Both of you.”

His asking this of them was immediately suspicious to Puck. Always before, if he provided food at all, he would simply have the guards toss or set it down for them, without asking that they eat it or sticking around to watch to make sure that they did. Changes in routine were highly suspect…why would Remington care now when he hadn’t before? What made this different? Had he put something in the food, something to make them sick or unable to eat it? Was he going to poison them?

Santana seemed to be having similar thoughts, because she lifted her eyes to stare first at Remington, then at Puck, seeming to expect Puck to come up with an answer that she hadn’t. They both knew they couldn’t outright defy Remington, at least not at present, with no plan of how to do so in place. 

Seeing their hesitation, Remington took a step closer, his voice dropping in volume, but certainly not in intensity as he instructed them again. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said to eat the food I went to the trouble of bringing you. If you can’t manage to do that, I certainly won’t waste my time or money buying you any again. Eat it.”

That was a threat that they couldn’t risk him carrying out. Without food, they would soon be unable to think, and they would certainly be too weak to carry out any plan they might attempt to come up with for escape. Resenting this forced obedience and dreading what might happen as a result, Puck opened one of the bags and took out a wrapped hamburger, looking at Santana and swallowing before taking a bite. Santana took hers out much more slowly, her hands shaking, and the bite she took was so tiny it could barely be noticed as one, and she had difficulty holding the sandwich in her trembling grasp.

The entire time they ate, they could feel Remington’s eyes on them, his smirking expression, even if they didn’t look at him at all. He seemed too close to Puck, as though he were hovering over him, though Puck knew that this was not true, that he was still several feet away. Puck didn’t taste anything unusual in the food, but then, he could barely taste it at all. Dread and discomfort made his taste buds register no difference between the meat, the bun, and the fries other than texture, and his mouth was pasty, making it difficult for him to chew, let alone swallow enough to get the food down. Santana seemed to be having similar difficulties beside him, but she struggled on, never once lifting her eyes towards Remington as she worked doggedly through the meal.

It seemed to take an unnaturally long time before they had both eaten their last bite, and Puck felt vaguely sick once this was accomplished. He wasn’t sure if it was because he wasn’t used to eating so much, the last remnants of a hangover, nervousness or disgust over having just followed Remington’s command like a lapdog, or if there truly was something wrong with the food that was only now beginning to affect him. When he snuck a glance at Santana beside him, still working on her fries, he saw that she looked similarly discomfited and kept pausing to put a hand against her chest, as though she were experiencing pain or finding it difficult to breathe.

Automatically he put a hand on her back, rubbing, but she shrugged out from under him, murmuring under her breath that she was okay. Puck didn’t touch her again, but neither did he take his eyes off her until all her food was gone. 

“Did you enjoy that?” Remington asked casually when they had both finished, having said not a word the entire time it took them to eat. “I hope so. Consider it a generous gift from me, considering your recent behaviors. Because the next time you try to twist up the rules on me, the next time you even think of disobeying…I will bring you food, and I will watch you eat again, just as I am doing now. But next time, there may be some very special ingredients added, with some very, very interesting side effects.”

They both knew a threat when they heard one. So that was what this was all about…a demonstration of Remington’s control over them, a prelude to any future harm or death he might cause them. He had just shown them how easy it would be for him at any time to decide upon their end, without ever having to lay a hand on them at all. He wouldn’t have to stand and watch them, as he had said, and give them any clues. He could send them poisoned food tomorrow without a word of warning, and how would they possibly know the difference?

“I would hate to have to do that, though, cause any sort of harm to my top two cash cows, however, even as a lesson…I suppose it’s not much use to make a lesson of someone if that person is too dead afterward to learn,” Remington continued to muse aloud, however, seeming to be enjoying hearing himself talk more than genuinely thinking things through. “I suppose it would be more profitable if I could make an example of someone else, someone who had nothing to do with any of your mistakes, except through their connection to you. Yes, it would certainly be a shame if I had to resort to that.”

Puck had intended to just keep his mouth shut, to let Remington just run his mouth for as long as he wanted, if only so he could watch and try to guess ahead of time what his intentions were before he actually went through with them. But at this comment from the man, he couldn’t resist speaking up, completely disgusted. 

“Oh, so you’re a murderer too then? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised a dick like you would get off on killing some poor little hooker you half starved and fucked until she was raw for months on end. I bet she was so doped up as it is she barely knew she was on planet earth, let alone felt your pencil dick. Bet you did her a favor ending her poor sorry life, no skin off her coke-snorting nose.”

He heard Santana suppress a snicker and almost smiled, glad to have shown this streak of defiance, even if he would end up getting hit for it. It seemed such a long time since he had heard her laugh that anything would have seemed worth it. He would have continued on to the point of completely careless disregard for himself to hear Santana laugh again, to see her give him a full and genuine smile, to know that just for a second he had made her forget just a little bit the total grim reality of what was going on. 

Puck wanted to reach back and take her hand, to show in some way how much he liked hearing her laugh, how much he wanted to hear it again. If the two of them could somehow manage to hang onto their sanity long enough for even these small, infinitely treasured moments between them, a private joke of sorts flaunted right in front of the others’ eyes, that had to mean they could get through. Didn’t it?

But the blow he had expected from Remington didn’t come- at least, not in any physical sense. Instead, Remington’s lips curved into a self-satisfied smile, and he leaned forward towards them, his words emerging nearly in a purr. 

“Oh, I didn’t kill some pathetic, sniveling little hooker, Puck, some gutter trash who can’t see straight long enough to walk even when she hasn’t been riding every dick that comes her way,” Remington responded, but it was not Puck he was looking at, but rather Santana, his dark eyes boring into hers, glinting with vicious pleasure that made Puck stiffen, watching him intently, suspiciously, even before the finished speaking. “There would be no fun or challenge in that, and how would that affect either of you? What punishment would it be to know someone you don’t give a damn about had her life cut short by a week or two at most? No, I didn’t kill one of my girls….I took out one of yours.”

“What? What do you mean?” Santana blurted, her spine immediately straightening as she turned to fully face Remington, seeming to have forgotten her own resolve to discard his presence as much as possible, to avoid looking, speaking to, or interacting with him, in hopes of him somehow forgetting that she was there at all- or maybe to keep from showing him any more than absolutely necessary the shame and pain he had caused her. But now she was looking him in the eyes, her lips slightly parted, brow scrunched into a frown as she stared at him, blinking several times, as though half hoping that what she had heard him say was simply something she had misinterpreted in some way. “One of my girls…what the hell are you talking about?”

Puck’s eyes didn’t sway apart from Remington as he too waited, tensed, almost holding his breath, for his response. He could feel his pulse speed up, his mouth go dry, even as he tried to convince himself that whatever Remington had just said or was implying, it was bullshit. The guy was talking out his ass, trying to threaten and scare them and shake them up. He was an asshole and a rapist and a kidnapper and any number of other ways of being total scum, but he wasn’t a murderer.

But even as he tried to tell himself this, he didn’t believe it, not at all. Because if Remington was and could do all of those things, just as Puck knew he had, then why would he have any line he didn’t cross? If he could hold a woman down and sexually assault her, if he could beat people and keep them imprisoned, starve them for days and then make money off their forced sexual activity, what would stop him from taking someone’s life?

And there was another niggling fact in the back of his mind, one he could not voice to Santana. So far, Remington had not lied; every threat he had issued had come true. 

“You ought to know what I mean, Miss Lopez, are you really so forgetful of the supposed love of your life?” Remington shook his head in mock disapproval, even as his lips remained curved into a smirk. “How many girls do you have- or more accurately, I suppose, how many girls have you opened your legs to extended your tongue to? But you should nevertheless know when I’m referring to your pretty blonde girlfriend. Not much going on upstairs with that one, but oh, how very flexible she was downstairs. And the way she whimpered towards the end….oh, that Brittany was one of the best I’ve ever had. It truly is a shame I had to shoot her in that pretty little face afterwards, but you see, Miss Lopez, that’s the problem with those of my girls and boys here who choose to disobey me. So selfish, only thinking of themselves and not how others are affected by their foolish choices. Your Brittany paid the price for you, so I do hope you’ll remember that the next time you get another stupid little plot with even a whisper of disobedience into your ignorant and oh-so-fragile little skull.”

He started to back off then, having nearly spat the last of those words into Santana’s face, and as he began to casually walk back towards the stairs, gesturing for the guards to follow, he gave one last casual comment over his shoulder before beginning his ascension. “You broke our deal…all bets are off now. Just keep that in mind.”

Puck couldn’t move. He couldn’t get to his feet and go after the man, as much as he wanted to. He couldn’t turn his head to look at Santana, and he didn’t dare to shift his eyes. He remained still, feeling his muscles twitch uncontrollably, hearing his own breathing hitch repeatedly, out of rhythm yet somehow strangely matching the increasingly loud, rapid breathing of Santana beside him. He knew he should do something, say something, as he felt the bed start to shake, presumably due to the violent trembling of Santana’s body perched on its edge. He should reach out to her, say something to her, try to comfort or reassure her, or at least try to distract her from the words that were no doubt repeating just as loudly and insistently in her head as they were in hers. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it; he couldn’t control his own limbs, let alone extend them to help her. All he could think of was what Remington had alleged, what he had threatened before, for Puck’s ears alone, towards his mother and his sister, towards Shelby and Quinn…towards Beth.

If he had killed Brittany, innocent, trusting Brittany, what would stop him from killing every single one of the other girls in his life?

But if Puck couldn’t move, Santana was suddenly a blur of motion as she lurched off the bed and towards the bathroom, her increasingly hyperventilating breaths becoming gasps and pants that then gave way to gagging, as though she were choking on her own inhalations. She had barely wrenched the bathroom door open and fallen to her knees in front of the toilet, leaving the door wide open, before Puck could hear her heaving, bringing up what little bit of food she had managed to consume. 

It was hearing this from her that finally managed to shake him out of his near paralysis enough to stand, to shuffle forward towards the bathroom and slowly come to kneel beside her in the crowded space, almost pressed against the tub out of necessity in order to be near her. Santana was hunched over the toilet bowl, a string of saliva dangling from her mouth, several strands of her hair falling forward from behind her badly shaking shoulders as she sobbed loudly, tears, mucus, and flecks of vomit dripping down her chin. She gasped for breath, releasing a loud, wordless wail as she heaved again, her stomach muscles spasming but unable to bring anything up. 

“P-P-Puck…P-P-PUCK…”

Puck reached quickly to hold back her hair in one fist, using his other hand to rub her back as he scooted a little closer to her, aware of a growing queasiness flopping inside his own gut as he tried to ignore the sour smell in the small room. He shushed Santana quietly, caressing her back in small circles as he leaned his lips close to her ear, trying to get close enough that she would hear him over the sound of her own cries.

“Shhh…’Tana, you gotta stop. You gotta calm down, babe, shhh…come on now, babe. Come on. Shhh…”

But Santana could not be comforted. Her head fell forward, her forehead hitting the toilet seat lightly, and she kept it on its edge, sobbing even harder as she remained doubled over, her words so distorted with her crying they were nearly wails. 

“He killed her…he K-K-KILLED HER, H-HE KILLED HER…”

“San…San, shh,” Puck said into her ear, knowing that if she could even hear him, she would not be able to comply, knowing that there was nothing he could say that would be able to overpower what Remington had said already. “Come on, babe…come on…”

He took in several deep breaths of his own, trying to ease the nausea in his stomach, to hold back the hot tears, bred of rage as much as from grief that were standing in his eyes. Right now he didn’t care anymore what happened or what he had to do, what he wanted more than anything in this life, more than he’d ever wanted anything at all, was to kill Remington, as brutally as he could manage. But that could not be accomplished, not in that moment, so he tried instead to focus on what tasks he could accomplish just then- the most important being to help Santana get back in control. 

So he rubbed her back and stroked back her hair, whispering words even he didn’t remember or understand in her ear, and took a towel and wet it, wiping off her face, neck, and upper chest. When he could see that Santana’s heavy tears were beginning to taper off just a little, likely more from exhaustion than from any lessened grief, Puck stood, his muscles stiff and protesting, flushed the toilet, and got her some water, holding it for her to drink. She spilled almost as much as she managed to get down and would drink only a little, sniffling and giving occasional gasping breaths that made it difficult for her to swallow, but he made sure she drank all the same before setting the cup down again. Returning to her on the bathroom floor, he pulled Santana into his arms, vaguely relieved when she molded herself into his chest, burying her face in his neck and wrapping her arms around him tightly. He could feel her heartbeat, her hot skin slick and damp against his own, and he rocked her slightly in the cramped space, blinking back his own tears as he continued whispering to her words that he himself tried to tell himself he believed.

“It’s not true. Not true, ‘Tana, not true. He’s fucking with your head, that’s all…not true. She’s okay. She’s okay.”

He continued to rock Santana, occasionally stroking her back or kissing her head, until he couldn’t feel any further tears wetting his skin, until all sobs had given way to snuffling and shaky breaths. Then he simply held her, pressing his lips to her ear as he whispered one last promise.

“We’ll get them, babe, I swear to you we’ll make them pay. We’ll get out of here, and we’ll make them pay…I promise you, we will.”


	20. Chapter 20

It had taken almost an hour before Puck finally attempted to get himself and Santana up on their feet and take her back to bed. She hadn't even been awake for a significant portion of the day yet, but it didn't matter; even if she didn't sleep, she definitely needed to rest. The emotional beating that her body had undergone today was intense, and it clearly wasn't helping either of them to huddle together on the cold bathroom floor.

He had briefly considered getting her into the bathtub but then realized what a stupid idea that was; only one day after having been raped, removing her clothes for her and touching her while she was undressed was hardly the brightest and most sensitive idea, even if there was nothing sexual about it. Instead Puck gently untangled himself from around her, getting to his own feet and flinching at the pain that shot through his joints and ribs at the movements, and then squatted to help pull Santana to hers. She was uncoordinated and still shaky, clutching at him, but he helped bear some of her weight, wrapping his arm around her waist and reassuringly rubbing his hand over her spine. Once he had gotten her back to the bed, he brought her some more water and had her drink, then drank himself before sitting on the bed beside her, looking her directly in the eyes before he spoke one more time.

"I think he was lying about Brittany, San. Really. I think he was lying and she's okay. He just wants us to totally give up and do what he says and not fight anymore, that's what I think. I think she's okay, so…so don't do that, don't let him do that to you. Okay? She's all right, and we're gonna be all right too."

Santana didn't say anything to him, not then. She just looked at him with her eyes glazed over, dull and apathetic in the moment, and then she closed them, as though to block him out. Puck exhaled, smoothing his hand over her face to brush back a stray stand of hair, and then settled in behind her on the bed. He didn't ask permission; he simply pulled her into him, her back to his chest, and kept an arm around her, holding her close to him.

They didn't sleep, at least not in the typical sense of the word. He could feel Santana's breathing changing rhythms on and off as she would doze, then come back awake, stirring against him, but she would never pull away or protest him being so near. And when what seemed like hours later, they finally sat up and pulled apart from each other, when Puck gave her what was left of the food in her bag, she finally consented to eating, if not the cold meat from the hamburger, the cold fries and the bun of the second bag of food that had been thrown down the stairs towards them sometime in the midst of their dozing.

She still was barely speaking, barely met his eyes, and seemed to have very little energy at all. But she was up and moving, she was eating, and she let Puck close to her, let him touch her whenever he wanted to, accepting the comfort he tried to give. And when Puck himself had gathered himself enough that he could at least try to think, she agreed to sit with him and try for the first time to genuinely carry out a plan of action.

It had become clear that they could not carry on any longer as they had been. Even if they physically survived their current circumstances, their mental and emotional well being would not and could not, not for a minute longer than necessary. So Puck started to talk, throwing out ideas that seemed crazy and nonsensical even to him, coming up with anything and everything he could even think of as the wildest possibility to set them free. Santana simply listened without giving input at first, but gradually she began to shoot ideas down or more carefully examine those with even a grain of plausibility, giving her own input. And when she finally began to fully participate, adding ideas and possibilities of her own, it was from there they came up with a plan- and then, to put it into action.

All they had to do then was wait. There was hardly a chance in the world that what they had come up with, off little sleep, little food, and much emotional upheaval was ever going to work, and every chance that it would fail horrifically. But whatever happened, it was the best shot they had, and they were going to put all their effort into making it work.

"HELP! REMINGTON, HELP, WE NEED SOME HELP, PLEASE, HELP ME, HELP! SANTANA'S HURT, SHE'S HURT AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO, I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK TO DO, SOMEONE, PLEASE, FUCKING HELP, PLEASE!"

Puck punctuated his yells with heavy blows to the basement door, hitting it not with his fists, which would further damage his knuckles and tire his arms, which he might need later for fighting or self-defense, but instead with the soles of his feet, kicking the door while bracing himself against the stair's railing so as not to lose his balance. In this way he could kick the door repeatedly without actually causing himself much pain or damage, but even so he could still feel the impact of the kicks up his legs, somewhat jarring his muscles. Still he ignored it, continuing to shout and scream. He didn't know if Remington or the other men were even around; there was no way for him to know how much of the day they spent in the building, or if they were there in that particular moment. But he had already committed himself to at least five solid minutes of effort; what other option was there now? If there was any way he could bring them down, then he had to do it; it was the last choice they had left. So with his heart thudding loudly in his chest, his entire body thrumming with adrenaline, Puck kicked the door, continuing to scream out at them.

"SHE'S GOING TO FUCKING DIE, SHE TRIED TO FUCKING KILL HERSELF! HELP ME, PLEASE, WE NEED SOME FUCKING HELP, PLEASE!"

For the first minute or two there was no response of any kind, and Puck started to think that either no one was around to hear, or they were simply ignoring his attempts to draw them in. But eventually he heard feet thundering down the hallway, and he barely had time to back away from the door before he heard Remington's voice call out to him.

"I'm at the door with my gun out and there are three men considerably larger than you are behind me, ready to stop you should you be foolish enough to attempt to rush by without being escorted or instructed to do so. If I were you, I would back down the stairs and refrain from making any foolish gestures if you want us to see what it is you're carrying on about."

Puck had had no intentions of any of that, and this set up was approximately what he had expected from him. He gave the door one last kick, then started to back down the stairs all the way to the bottom as he called back out to the men outside the door.

"I'm down at the bottom of the stairs, I won't try anything, I swear. Please, just hurry, please just come help her, please!"

From the bottom of the stairs he heard the door unlock, watched the knob turn and Remington begin to descend the stairs, gun out, just as he had promised, with Paul, Vincent, and Jeremiah following behind. Puck paid little attention to them. Jerking his hand at them, letting it shake visibly where they could see, he motioned for them to follow him, his voice still overly loud and uneven with emotion as well.

"Hurry up, she's spazzing out and I don't know what to do, just help her, do something to help her!"

He didn't glance back to make sure the men were following as he rushed back towards Santana, but he could hear them coming down the stairs and knew when he heard Remington swear that they had seen her. It would be hard to miss her, considering what was currently occurring.

Santana was lying in the middle of the basement floor, just in front of the bed, her head thrown back to expose her throat, her eyes closed, hair strewn over the dirty floor and badly snarled and tangled, partly on her side, partly on her back, as her torso was twisted in an awkward, pained position. Spittle was coming out the side of her mouth, and she was twitching, her limbs spasming frequently, incoherent grunts and moans escaping her. She looked to be in severe pain, and as Remington stopped approaching her, gun still drawn, and stared, his eyebrows knitting, Puck gestured frantically, continuing to pace around the room with quick, agitated steps.

"Do something, hurry! She's gonna fucking die if you don't, do something!"

"What the hell did she do, what the fuck is this?" Remington sputtered, shaking his head. Although he seemed unable to take his eyes off Santana, he didn't make a move towards her, nor did he instruct his guards to do anything. They remained gathered behind him, blinking towards Santana, but making no gestures or suggestions as to what to do next. "What the hell is wrong with her?"

"She drank shampoo, she drank the whole rest of the bottle of the shampoo!" Puck half shouted, throwing his arms up and half spinning towards the bathroom to gesture towards its open door. "I didn't know she was doing it! She was in there for like thirty minutes, I thought she was just using the bathroom or whatever, I didn't ASK her, and next thing she's coming out practically falling over and drooling, and she just falls down, she just falls down and she's like this…this is your fault, this is all your fucking fault! You fuck her, you kill her fucking girlfriend, and then she does something like this and it's your fault!"

"You shut the hell up," Remington snapped, and for a moment he pointed his gun in Puck's direction. Puck went still, the shakiness in his limbs and hands becoming more pronounced, as Remington leveled back at him, "She's a stupid whore and always will be, whatever stupid decisions she makes are her own damn fault. If it's anyone's but hers, it's yours, because who's the one down here supposedly being the brave protector of his beloved soulmate of a girl?" He held the gun up towards him for another second, meeting his eyes, then finally lowered it back to his side, putting it back into his holster on his belt. "If you want me to do something then stay back and shut the hell up."

He started towards Santana then, eyeing her still-twitching form as he began to bark instructions to the other men, his exasperation clear in his tone. "Vincent, go upstairs, check and see if we have anything to make her throw up other than punching her in the fucking stomach, which I'm more than inclined to do at this point regardless." To Puck he asked, "How much did she fucking drink, how much was in the bottle?"

"I don't know, a lot! Like…a fucking lot!" Puck ran his hand through his hair, letting his voice shake as Remington rolled his eyes again, barking out to him.

"Very fucking helpful, boy. Paul, go check the bathroom, see how many ounces the bottle was and if there's any still left inside, see if she already puked any, see if there's anything else missing she could have drank too. Jeremiah, support her head, if she gives herself fucking brain damage hitting it around she's as good as dead to us as it is. And you, boy, stay the hell out of our way."

As the men all began to carry out Remington's instructions, Remington himself bent towards Santana, reaching to take hold of her legs in an effort to hold them down. He leaned close to her face, beginning to speak to her loudly. With Vincent disappearing up the staircase, then out the basement door, Paul looking around in the bathroom, and Jeremiah hunched over Santana as well, holding down her head, that left no one watching Puck, let alone holding a weapon to him, preventing him from any actions he might attempt to carry out. Exactly as he had hoped…and exactly the opportunity they had tried to hard to set up for.

Moving swiftly, quietly, Puck circled around to the bed, at the end closest to Santana's head, where Jeremiah was supporting it. In one quick gesture he reached for the ceramic top of the toilet tank, where he had stashed it some hours ago, and pulled it out from under the bed. Gripping it tightly in his hands, he swung it at the back of Jeremiah's neck with all his strength.

The loud cracking noise of something snapping in the man's neck was one of the most satisfying, beautiful sounds Puck could remember hearing in the majority of his existence. He didn't take time to register Jeremiah dropping his grasp of Santana, his body slumping, neck drooping over, before he hit him twice more. As the man began to crumple, Puck reached for his gun, taking it into his hands, and without any hesitation shot him in the back of the head.

He had no time to register the noise of the gunfire, the splatter of blood and brain matter on Remington, Santana, and partially himself as well from the now dead man slumped at his feet. Not when Santana had suddenly sat up and launched herself at Remington, attempting to tackle him to the ground, or at least distract him enough to allow Puck to proceed unhindered by Remington coming after him. Not when he could hear Paul running from the bathroom, gun drawn- not when his instincts paired with suddenly, deliberately focused thought caused him to turn on his heel and shoot the man in the chest, before any shots could be fired in his direction.

A second shot to Paul's head, once on the ground, ended that threat as well, and Puck spun around to face Remington and Santana, to help her however was needed. He could hear her panting, had earlier heard Remington's shouted swears, but when he turned to look at them, he saw that Remington had, as was only predictable, given Santana's size and lack of strength, overpowered her. He was pinning her to the floor, half straddling her, as Santana bucked and strained against him, her features pale and rigid with her fear. But as Puck pointed the gun at him, taking several steps close, Remington held his own gun to Santana's head, causing Puck to stop in his track. He slowly half twisted his body, now pointing the gun at Puck, before pointing it back to Santana, the implication clear even before he spoke.

"You do it, boy and I kill you both."

He would have expected more from Remington. Always before there had been a drawn out speech, Remington's savoring of the moment as he gloated with whatever plans he had in place. But the man wasted no breath now. He held his gun, brandishing between them, and Puck could see that his hand too was shaking, that for the first time, the man seemed genuinely caught off caught, genuinely thrown as to what to do. For the first time since Puck had been thrust into his path, Remington was not in control…and Puck was.

He hesitated for a moment, as the gun wavered back to Santana's head. Looking into her fear-bright eyes, he saw her nod, ever so slightly, and though he knew not what message she was giving him, he acted nonetheless. When the gun began to swerve back in his direction, Puck steadied his hand, took aim, and fired- directly into Remington's face.

He had no time to watch what had happened. He never saw if his shot hit the mark, never saw Remington's reaction. The moment he pulled the trigger, he had heard another gunshot, so in sync with his own he had at first not realized that Remington had shot as well. But then came the pain, so intensely overwhelming he felt himself began to choke, literally forgetting to breathe. He could not think, could not register or begin to process what was happening at all. He was only distantly aware of his body falling back, of his vision blurring, of the sound of high-pitched shrieks before the harsh impact of the concrete floor against his back dimly jarred through him.

Puck didn't know if his eyes were closed, or if he simply couldn't see any longer. There was the distant sound of something slamming, even over the seemingly far off screams, of what seemed to be repeated pounding of some kind, and then there was another gunshot, another loud thud, and no more screams at all. Still he could not form a coherent thought, still he could not begin to understand, even as he felt someone's hands on him, cold, shaking, touching his face. He could hear someone's shallow breathing, almost hyperventilating, could feel hot liquid on his skin, and a familiar female voice was speaking to him, but he could not follow her words. Then all sound seemed to be fading away entirely, with the feel of those hands, repeatedly touching his face, the last thing left that he was aware of.


	21. Chapter 21

When Puck first awakened, he thought at first that he was blind. 

It didn’t make sense, in hindsight, to have come to that immediate conclusion. After all, he was looking up at a bright white light from the overhead lighting in the ceiling, and the dull white walls of the ceiling hardly indicated a lack of sight or the complete darkness usually associated with blindness either. Maybe he was still groggy and disoriented off pain medication, or maybe he was simply still half asleep; whatever the reason, Puck’s initial reaction was to try to extend his hand to his face, to see if he could see his own fingers and therefore reason out how or if he had been blinded.

With his effort to move his fingers, however, a dull burst of pain shot up his arm and shoulder, and Puck grunted, confused. As he tried to sit up, the pain intensified, and he felt a strangely tight, pulling sensation in his arm, as though something were attached to him, working to keep him down. Puck blinked, then shook his head, trying to swallow against the dry pastiness of his mouth as his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Shifting them down, squinting, he voiced aloud in an oddly creaky tone, “What the hell…”  
He was lying in a bed he didn’t recognize, one with bars at the sides, as though to keep him from rolling off. There was no blanket covering him, only a sheet, and there was a tube coming out of his arm. Puck’s eyes followed its length, leading him to the conclusion that it was an IV. And as he strained his neck, trying to see all of himself that he could while half covered by a sheet, he could see that he was wearing no shirt, that his ribs were bandaged, and there was further bandaging, lightly stained red, right at his left shoulder and collar bone area. 

Obviously he was in the hospital. Puck couldn’t remember much about how this had come to be, not in that moment, but he was becoming awake and alert enough to piece that much together. He was alive…hurt, obviously, but alive. And that meant…what, exactly? 

“Noah,” a slightly choked voice responded, and Puck turned his head, blinking again. His mother was getting to her feet from a chair in the room’s corner, and he saw that her face was mottled and heavily creased, her eyes damp and reddened with emotion. She bit her lip, a few tears leaking as she came towards him, shaking her head, her hand awkwardly extended out to him. “Oh, Noah…”

She touched his arm, the one not harboring an IV or on the side of his bandaged shoulder, and kept shaking her head, her fingers gingerly stroking over his outer arm. She leaned in to kiss his forehead, and when she backed away, Puck could see that she was crying more steadily now, though quietly, dashing the tears with the tips of her fingers. Her emotion, as it always had, made him feel vaguely guilty; any time his mother was crying, whether or not it had anything to do with him, Puck always felt as though it were his responsibility to make her stop, that he was again somehow disappointing her as her son. 

He tried to reassure her as he usually did, attempting to reach his good hand up to take hers, even as he noticed his lack of coordination, the lack of strength in his squeezing of her fingers. 

“I’m okay, Ma…”

“You were shot, Noah,” she burst out with, squeezing his hand back considerably harder than he was hers, her voice rising in pitch and volume as several more tears made their way down her cheeks. “Don’t give me that. For the love of all things sacred, here I am thinking you deserted the army before you ever started at all, thinking you ran off with that Lopez girl who always seemed something of a hussy as it was, seeing as you were both missing even if those friends of yours up in that God forsaken city were going on about you both being kidnapped, because what kind of person would kidnap someone like you? Then the next thing I know I’m hearing you both were found in some filthy basement with four dead bodies all around you, the Lopez girl half crazy going on about porn like some sort of sleazy underground ritual or orgy, or…Noah, why would someone kidnap the two of you, what did you do, what did you get yourself involved in? Is it drugs, gangs…Noah, please tell me you weren’t involving yourself with that Lopez girl in some sort of disgusting…sex group. Noah…Noah, what are you doing? Noah, stop that, that’s there for a reason, Noah!”

For Puck was yanking at the IV in his arm, trying with a lack of coordination and his usual force to pull it away. Succeeding in doing so, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain shooting up his arm and shoulder as a result, he attempted to sit up, to swing his feet over the side of the bed to stand, even as his muscles had difficulty cooperating. 

“Noah, you are on high doses of pain medications, you are supposed to be right here where the doctor will see you, Noah…Noah, where are you trying to go? Stop that!”

As his mother took his arm, Noah tried to shake her off, shaking his head at her. It was difficult to focus on more than one thing at a time, as his thinking felt fuzzy and not quite within his control. He could concentrate on one thing and one thing only- getting to Santana, however need be, and finding out what had happened…getting to Santana, and making sure she was okay.

“Noah, lay back down,” his mother ordered, trying to push at him, though gently, but Puck resisted her, his own voice so loud and urgent in tone he barely recognized it himself.

“Where’s Santana? What happened to her, is she okay? Ma, I need to see Santana, I need to see her, now!”

“Noah, please, lay down…she’s okay,” he barely heard his mother say, again pushing at his arms. “She’s not the one who was shot, anyway. She’s in the hospital too, but I’m sure you’re not supposed to be up and running around like this when you can barely sit up, I’m sure she’s not supposed to be running around either!”

But this was not something Puck wanted to hear, nor something he was capable of abiding by. He heard his mother say that Santana was okay, that she hadn’t been shot, but even more clearly he heard that she was in the hospital too…and that meant he had to go to her. Until he could see her with his own two eyes, until he could touch her with his own hands and hear her tell him with her own voice that she was all right, he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept it to be true.

But his mother was pressing a call button by his bed now, and a nurse was entering the room, one considerably stronger than his mother. And as Puck struggled against her, getting progressively angered and agitated as his desire to go to Santana was continually denied, he soon found himself tensing up against the needle being stuck into his vein, then slumping back, unable to fight any longer as a sedative took its effect. 

**

It was another two days before he was allowed to see Santana. Two more days of middle of the night waking and bandage changes, embarrassing and painful examinations, medications and questions and prolonged stretches of time where Puck could not sleep, yet could not turn off the thoughts and memories streaming unchecked through his mind. Two more days of constantly wondering and worrying and practically aching to see Santana, to know for himself that she genuinely was okay. 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t hear from anyone, or got no news of Santana at all. Puck had several more visits from his mother and his little sister, Sarah, both whom he prodded for information each time. He had been interviewed a few times by the police, and each time had sought assurance from them that they had been speaking to Santana too, that she was alive, if not entirely well. He had received phone calls from Rachel and Kurt, Quinn and Mike Chang, Mercedes and Sam, Coach Beiste, Brittany, who it turns out was indeed alive, well, and clueless as to who Remington was, and Mr. Shue, and even Shelby, who had let Beth babble into the phone a little bit as well. It was difficult to talk to all of them, with their voiced concern and questions, with their expressions of caring, all difficult to take or process when Puck himself could barely stand his own thoughts. 

It was nice that they cared, but honestly, Puck didn’t want to talk to any of them, beyond what they could tell him about Santana. He didn’t want to tell them that he was okay; he didn’t want to explain what had happened, or hear them apologize or pity him. He didn’t want their unspoken wondering about how he could have gotten himself into such a situation and what the exact details of it had been. He wanted only to be left alone…no, even this was inaccurate. He wanted Santana, and it was only this that he could not have.

It was so difficult to talk to everyone. Puck told the police everything he could remember, everything he knew, wanting to make sure that Santana escaped any possible blame, that they would not think her a murderer or a willing prostitute by trade. He tried to make it clear that neither of them had wanted anything that had happened, that it had been out of fear of their lives that they had in any way complied, and yet he still felt as though they were judging him without words, accusing him somehow of being part of the other men, or of being somehow less of a man for not having done something to stop them sooner. He had killed three men, had nonconsensual sex with Santana, technically, had participated in internet porn and selling drugs, escorting prostitutes, and who knows what other minor crimes. Given his time in juvie, and his record of suspensions and fights, it seemed to Puck that they were going out of their way to find a way to judge him guilty as well. How likely was it that someone like him was totally innocent, that someone like Noah Puckerman would happen to stumble into such a scenario as a victim?

It was just as difficult to talk to Kurt and Rachel. Both called him each day, in tears, constantly apologizing for having kicked him and Santana out of the house, blaming themselves for what had occurred afterward. It was all Puck could do to hear it without either snapping at them to shut up or beginning to cry, because in all truth, he didn’t blame anyone nearly as much as he blamed himself. And then the psychiatrist. Puck definitely didn’t want to talk to her, and made that clear from the get go- and yet he was required to, before the hospital would even think of releasing him.

It was nearly three days before he was cleared to be able to see Santana, or rather, before she was cleared to see him. As Puck was still not allowed to leave his room, it was she who came to him; apparently, she had been asking about him just as frequently as he had been her, badgering the nurses and doctors until they relented to allow her to. 

She hesitated in the doorway, lightly holding onto its frame as though she didn’t quite recognize Puck when she saw him, or perhaps she simply wasn’t sure if he would recognize her. Puck’s heart squeezed at the sight of her. He wanted to jump out of bed and run to her, to hug her hard against him and not let her go. But he stayed where he was, making no movements other than to lift his hand in a slow wave. 

“Hey.”

She was dressed in a hospital gown, just as he was, and in its baggy fit she looked very thin, her arms and legs seeming small enough to Puck that he would almost bet he could circle his hand around them. There were fading bruises on her arms and legs, and although her split lip was almost healed, the bruising to her eye and the cut to her eyebrow was still brightly colored and obvious from a first glance. But her hair was clean and brushed, and as thin as she was, as dark the surface of her gaze, her face softened, reminding him of how very beautiful she was, when fully well and uninjured, when she smiled at him.

“Hey.”

They both remained quiet for a few moments, unmoving, simply looking each other over, as though memorizing each other’s forms. Puck found himself trying to convince himself of the reality of the moment, telling himself more than believing it that Santana was genuinely here in front of him, that she was alive and breathing and not too terribly injured physically, but that most of all, she was out of the basement. It was still so hard on a day to day basis not to think of Remington and the other men, to flinch when anyone moved too suddenly, and Puck knew, though he had not yet been exposed to one, that he had a revulsion against using a laptop or a camera any time soon. He could not imagine wanting to have sex with a girl right now, could not imagine being able to get through it without being certain that she was tensing up beneath him, that she didn’t truly want it, that he wasn’t in some way violating or abusing her. He couldn’t imagine being with another girl without seeing Santana’s grim face, struggling to hold back her true emotions, without feeling her shaking body beneath his or her tears on his neck. It seemed unreal to him sometimes that he was really and truly away from it all, that he would not wake up and find it all to be a terrible dream that they had escaped. 

But here she was, standing in front of him, staring at him just as much and intently as he was staring at her, until Puck finally had to prod them forward.

“I know I’m a sexy man beast and all, but aren’t you gonna come in and get some of this for yourself instead of just standing there dreaming about it?”

He was relieved when Santana gave a faint laugh, rolling her eyes, and stepped forward, her face relaxing a little more as she came up to his bedside. She hesitated beside him, seeming not to know whether it would be all right to touch or hug him, or perhaps not sure if she herself was comfortable to do so. But when Puck swung his legs over the bed, then stood, reaching out his good arm towards her as though to offer an embrace, she came forward quickly, almost throwing herself into the circle of his arm. Closing his arm around her shoulders, feeling her arms tightly circle his waist, Puck ignored the pull of his ribs, hugging her as closely to him as he could. 

It must have been at least a full minute or two before they pulled back. They held each other, breathing somewhat unevenly, and Puck could feel her heart beating against his, her sniffling through quiet tears against the place joining his shoulder to his neck. There was nothing in between their skin but the cheap, thin material of their hospital gowns, and yet there was no discomfort or awkwardness in this. Puck had understood nothing in the past several days, but now, holding Santana to him, Puck fully understood then that he had needed this with her, that Santana had needed this too.

He realized that his own eyes were stinging and shut them, forcing back threatening tears before he finally pulled back from her, kissing the top of her head. As Puck kept his arm around her loosely, looking down at her, he asked the first question that came to mind, the most important one that had been plaguing him from the moment he remembered her upon waking.

“You okay, ‘Tana?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions, Puckerman,” she replied- an answer that was no answer at all, but one that Puck understood nevertheless. By what definition of the word could either of them really be okay?

He brushed a hand over her hair, giving her a small, acknowledging smile, and saw that she was eyeing his bandaged shoulder, keeping herself slightly apart from him now, as though not wanting to touch.

“Does it hurt?” she asked quietly, her eyes directed towards it.

Giving her a small, playful smile, Puck nudged her lightly with his uninjured arm. “Now who’s asking the stupid questions?”

Taking this with a roll of her eyes, Santana stepped back a little, looking to the side, before speaking again. Puck noticed her eyes now trained on the bed, how she kept her voice carefully neutral.

“I talked to Brittany. She’s okay.”

“Yeah, I know, I talked to her too,” Puck replied, feeling the heaviness of this exchange and not sure how to respond to it. He shifted his wait, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited to see where Santana was going with this. “I’m glad, San.”

Santana nodded wordlessly, her eyes still turned from his. Puck watched her breathe out, then reach out to grip the edge of his bed before she spoke again, her words still quiet. 

“I’m sorry.”

Puck frowned, watching her, confused and somewhat ill at ease by her words, the demeanor of her posture, her lack of eye contact as she spoke. He didn’t know what to make of her shift in behavior, the sudden discomfort and strain she was showing, and he wasn’t entirely sure what she was apologizing for in the first place. 

“For what, Santana?” he asked outright, but it was another several moments before Santana breathed out again, her words still very carefully formed. 

“What do you think, Puck, you got shot. You could have died, trying to protect me. Trying to get me out.” 

“Yeah, well, so could you have, you were the one with the gun to your head first,” Puck pointed out. Just saying the words caused them both to flinch, a vivid memory returning to Puck’s thoughts, and he had to take a moment to breathe, his fingers digging into the skin of his upper arms before he had calmed enough to continue. “Wasn’t no other way, ‘Tana, and it got you out. It got us both out. Anyway we knew shit could happen. Not to mention it was my plan, so my fault. I’m still here, and so are you.”

Santana was silent, her fingers now tracing the sheets of his bed. Puck waited, watching her, and then stepped slightly closer, though he didn’t reach out to touch her.

“I’m not sorry, San. I’d do it again. And I think you would have done it for me too.”

Another few seconds went by before she nodded slightly. Though Puck could only see her profile, he saw her briefly bite her lip before replying.

“Yeah. I would. Still doesn’t mean I like that it happened with you.”

They were both quiet for a few minutes, and then Santana sat on the bed, finally turning back towards him. There was a renewed darkness to her gaze that bothered Puck, even as he was sure she could see it echoed back at her in his own. He hesitated, then sat beside her, not touching but close, and after a few minutes she began to speak again.

“I don’t know how much you remember about how it ended up. You shot at him, Puck. He shot you at the same time, or maybe even just after or a little before, I don’t know. It was so confusing and when I think about it, it makes me…”

She stopped, releasing a breath so shaky and drawn out that Puck started to reach to touch her, wanting her to stop.

“San, it’s okay. You don’t gotta talk about it-“

“He shot you, but I knocked his arm,” Santana continued deliberately, speaking over him, and shrugging off his hand. She was blinking, but her jaw was set, and lifted her chin, her voice strengthening. “I knocked his arm, I butted it with my head, and he couldn’t kill you. He…it got your shoulder, instead of your head or your face.” She swallowed, then went on, her voice getting faster. “And you were- you were hurt, and he was on me, but…I pushed him off. I pushed him off, and I got his gun…Vincent, he was coming down the stairs, and I took the gun and I shot him. Then…Remington, I got his phone, and I called the police, and they came. They came and…there was blood all over me, and…”

“San,” Puck’s voice was almost too low for himself to hear, but Santana wasn’t finished. She let him touch her arm, her jaw working, eyes bright with tears and memory. She seemed not quite present with him, but lost somewhere within her own words.

“They came and got you, both of us, and I thought you would die. I thought…I think they didn’t believe me, at first, or thought I had…that I was like the other girls, and had…the police and the shrinks here, they wouldn’t leave me alone, and they made me do a…they wanted me to do one of those kits, you know, for women, I guess they must have believed me after a while because they talked to mami and they realized we were missing and then they pulled up his records, Remington’s, he had a record, and the other men, and talked to the other girls, and…fuck. It’s just…be fucking glad you don’t remember all of it, Puck, be fucking glad.”

She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a sob, and when Puck put his arm around her shoulders, she leaned into him, sniffing. Puck rubbed her arm, swallowing several times before he could come up with a reply, trying not to envision everything she had just described.

“You did good, San. You saved me. You know that? You saved me.”  
Santana took in a slow breath, leaning her forehead into Puck’s shoulder. He felt a shiver run through her frame and tightened his arm around her, lightly trailing his fingers up and down her arm. After a few second she swallowed again, then hooked her hand through the crook of his arm, as though to pull him even more closely against herself.

“I got us there,” she said quietly, lifting her head from his arm to look up at him, but keeping her hand through its crook. “I guess it’s only fair I get us out. But you did too, Puck. It was your idea and your set up…and everything that came before, it was you.” She swallowed again, and her eyes met and held his as she said with soft sincerity, “I don’t think I’d still be here without you.”

There was no verbal reply he could give to that. He knew she meant what she was saying. She would have been beaten to death for defiance or rebellion, would have tried to run and ended up with bullets in her back, or maybe, she would have broken so completely she was still down there, being used and abused with no hope of escape. Maybe she would have genuinely tried to take her life, and maybe she would have succeeded. 

Puck didn’t like to consider all the possibilities, not even for a few moments. He felt a shudder come over his own spine, and he shook his head, trying to shake the thoughts out of his memory, trying to keep the options of his own fate away, had he remained behind alone. 

“Well, you’re here,” he muttered finally, brushing his fingertips over Santana’s hair. “You’re here…we both are.”

Santana nodded, half closing her eyes. For another few moments they remained quiet, holding onto each other in a somewhat awkward position, not truly entwined, but nevertheless touching, resting. Eventually Santana’s eyes shifted upward again, and she lightly tugged at Puck’s sleeve, giving him a small smile. 

“Your ma must hate me even more now, huh?”

Taken off guard by this, Puck’s eyes flitted down to Santana, then off to the side almost guiltily, even as he kept his voice casual, attempting to deny. The truth was that Santana had always been one his mother’s least favorite of the girls he had dated, at least out of the ones she had known about. “The Lopez girl” had been how she most commonly referred to her, and more than a few times she had made comments about “Mexicans” and to Santana being “fast” or “having a mouth on her,” although she had said the latter about Puck himself countless times and with more frustration and colorful language over the years. It was indeed true that since Puck’s hospitalization he had heard his mother make comments under her breath, though never quite loudly or directly enough for him to confront it, that seemed to be referencing Santana. After everything that had happened, the majority which his mother still had no knowledge of, Santana was definitely not making her list of favorite people any time soon, even though Puck knew more clearly than anyone else currently in existence, that as much as he had spent time thinking and telling Santana otherwise initially, none of this was her fault.

Just the thought of this, of people thinking or believing or even daring to contemplate SAYING as much to Santana was enough for Puck’s face to begin to burn with fierce protectiveness and outrage on her behalf, and he kissed Santana’s head as much to convey this as to keep her from seeing his face as he replied, trying to keep his tone casual. 

“Nah. She doesn’t, San.”

“Yes she does,” Santana remained unconvinced, shrugging. “It’s okay though. She never liked me, this is good reason not to start.”

Her arm slowly moved out, beginning to circle around Puck’s waist as she pulled herself in closer against him, as though to test their newfound boundaries, in this entirely new setting and context. Puck held still, not wanting to give off any indication to her that she should pull away, then, after a few more seconds of her remaining this much closer, wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his thumb slowly caressing over her skin. Their paper gowns made awkward crackling noises, and he could feel her chilled skin through, her occasional shivers in the cool hospital air- or was it her emotions, making her so cold? 

Puck wanted to rub his hands over every part of her showing any signs of physical discomfort, warming her skin as carefully and gently as he could. There would be nothing sexual in his intentions; he only wanted to keep her comfortable and safe, even if that would mean wrapping her in blankets and leaning his body into hers. But all he could settle for, all he dared even try, was to rub his hand over her arm, pulling her a little more closely into him, as he continued to struggle to verbally respond, even as his thoughts remained scattered, his continued tangle of feelings making his every response difficult to decide upon, be it in actions or in words.

“She’ll get over it,” he told her, in reference to his mother, meaning it; if he had to force his mother to see things his way, if he had to force her to fake it until it became reality, he would make her let go of her resentment and dislike of Santana. Whatever it took, he would make sure of that. “What about your mom, ‘Tana? She must be pretty upset. Is she here now?”

“Papi made her take a nap, that’s the only reason I could escape,” Santana rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile on her lips. “She’s crazy. You’d think she was the one who this happened to.”

Santana’s mother had always been busy, though not nearly as much so as her father, a doctor at the very same hospital Santana and Puck were currently at. As a result Puck had not met her more than a few times; however, she had always impressed upon him that she was a genuinely warm and caring mother to Santana, that she truly loved and supported her daughter, even if Santana herself didn’t always reach out for or fully believe in her acceptance of her. He could only imagine how upset Mama Lopez must have been upon learning that her daughter was missing, and how fiercely protective she must be towards Santana now that she had been found- probably almost as much so as he himself felt, with less inclination to attempt to hide it.

“I bet,” he responded, giving Santana a returning small but genuine smile of his own. “Let her, she was probably flipping out in a major way. Let her do the mom thing.”

“I am, but Jesus, enough is enough,” Santana rolled her eyes, as her tone began to take on a complaining, almost sarcastic edge. For the first time since she had entered the room, Puck really could see in her a glimpse of the Santana he had known before any of this, and it was enough to make his smile grow considerably. “She keeps bringing me stuffed animals like I’m six years old. I was fucking kidnapped and now I’m back, tell me what a stuffed elephant is going to do to change anything when I already have a small stuffed zoo shoved in the floor space by my bed? And she keeps touching me and talking to me even if I just want to sleep, and bringing me food and saying how skinny I am. It’s so annoying.”

“You are pretty skinny, so she’s right,” Puck pointed out, his smile becoming a smirk as Santana hit his arm, her expression flickering in between a scowl and a responding smile. He knew that as much as Santana complained, and as genuinely as she was probably annoyed by her mother’s attentions, she also most likely secretly loved and desired it as well- but like him, could only tolerate so much before she reached a threshold where no one was wanted near her.

There was one exception, when he reached this point, one person he would always want and allow within his bubble of space and solitude…but what he didn’t know, what he would never ask, was if he was for Santana that one person, just as she now was to him.

“Rachel and Kurt are being weird,” Santana said after a few moments. “Asking all these questions, being so nice but…they ask stuff, but without really asking stuff, you know? It’s how are you, did you sleep, what kind of food are you eating in the hospital, what’s on TV…nothing about what really happened.”

She chuckled without humor, even as she pushed even closer against Puck. “No one’s asking how many people held you down there, how many times did you get beaten, how many times were you given a death threat, how many men did you kill with your own hands, how many times were you raped?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she turned her face back into Puck’s arm, her breath sputtering out against his skin. His jaw tightening, heartbeat beginning to quicken, adrenaline immediately flooding through him in the form of anger at even this slight reference, Puck wrapped his free arm around her as well, pulling her closer as he nodded, his own words tight and terse in response.

“Yeah. I know.”

“I haven’t seen them,” Santana murmured after a few minutes, lifting her face, and he was not surprised that her eyes were damp. “But I sort of don’t want to. It’s…everything’s different now, and they’ll know it and act like it even though they’ll try to act like it’s not…I hate it. It hasn’t even happened yet and I fucking hate it.”

There was nothing Puck could say to this either. He knew exactly where she was coming from, exactly what she meant, and she was right- what could they ever do about it?

He squeezed her shoulder, letting her pull away slowly and on her own terms, and when Santana spoke again, her voice was quiet but firm, intent with meaning.

“I don’t want to talk about it again. Ever. Any of it. I mean it. When we’re out of the hospital…when we’re back doing our own thing again, I just…I want to just go and do it. Just leave this damn place and go back to the loft and back to work and just…never again. Any of it.”

As Puck looked down at her, he knew she was serious…but there was even more of a subtext to what she was saying, something she would not voice, but which they both understood. When they left the hospital, when they agreed to refuse to ever talk about the abduction and everything it had consisted of…when they resumed their so-called normal lives again, and still never said a word, that would mean cutting out not just words, not just memories, but each other. It would mean not acknowledging the connection that had formed between, not giving words or even any physical engagement of it. It would mean going back to their previous somewhat distant relationship, or maybe an even more removed one, because to continue to be physically and emotionally close in any way would mean acknowledging and being reminded of what had occurred between them to make it happen at all. 

To not talk about what happened would mean to separate, to keep apart from each other, because actions could speak so much louder and bring up so many more memories than words ever could. To agree to not talk about it would mean to agree to not be around Santana, to resist all urges to go to her to comfort and be comforted by, and it would be the hardest thing Puck could remember doing in equality to everything he had endured in the basement. All he wanted was to have Santana near, to know she was safe or he could try to keep her so. But if she wanted this…how could she deny what she seemed to think she needed?

And so he nodded, and with short words verbally agreed. And when Santana finally pulled away with a small wave and a grimace of a smile that never met her eyes, leaving him alone again in his room, the sense of loss he felt was almost enough to double him over in physical pain.


	22. Chapter 22

It was a few days later that Puck was cleared to be released from the hospital. Santana had already gone home a two days before him. She had not visited him again, since that initial time, and she didn't text him or call him either. Because she didn't do so with him, Puck didn't do so with her.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Santana. On the contrary, she was the first thing on his mind when he woke up in the morning, the last person he thought of when he went to sleep. And all the hours in between were frequently occupied with memories and desire to see her, to talk to her, as well.

Even night was not safe from Santana, constantly within his view. Nearly every night, whether he could clearly remember the dreams or not in details or coherent memory, Puck was almost unable to remain asleep as it was, for worry of Santana. Was she sleeping, was she safe? Was she frightened or lonely? Could she sleep, or was she lying awake, shivering in the dark for fear that someone would come to her and harm her as they had before? Was she jolting awake, as Puck was, every time a nurse walked in the room or every time she heard footsteps go down the hall, shaken and terrified that somehow it was the men in the basement, back to finish off what they had prevented them from carrying out one last time? Could she sleep without nightmares, as he could not? Was her mother staying with her at night, holding her hand or stroking back her hair if she woke up in tears? Where did Brittany fit into the equation?

Puck didn't know. He didn't know and he couldn't ask, as much as he wanted to, because Santana had clearly spelled out to him that she didn't want him to. Until she made some sort of gesture that she wanted him involved in her life again, or until she herself volunteered or asked of him the information he wanted to know, he was going to steer clear of it, and of contacting her too. The last thing he wanted was to make things worse for her.

And so out of the hospital, Puck tried instead to resume his own life, to, if not forget Santana, at least try to shove her into the back of his mind instead of the forefront of his thoughts. He continued not to call or text her, and as much as he could manage to restrain himself from doing it, he didn't ask anyone else how she was doing or what she was up to either. If he knew, it would make it that much harder to resist contacting her himself, so he simply told himself, every time she came into his mind, that she was fine, that this was what she had wanted and needed to be okay.

But every time, every single time, it seemed to get harder and harder to even pretend to believe himself.

He knew that Santana had gone back to the loft with Kurt and Rachel. She had said as much herself to him, and he assumed that she had followed through with the rest of her intentions, resuming work at the diner and trying to figure out what it was she truly wanted to do with her life. He didn't know if Brittany was still with Sam or with Santana or either, or whether Santana would be calling and spending time with her, and he didn't make it his business to find out, even from Kurt or Rachel. In fact, Puck did what he could to avoid and discourage contact from all the other Glee members towards himself as was possible.

It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to them, so much as it was much too hard to try. They could never understand what had happened to him and Santana, what he himself had done, and he didn't want to remember, let alone explain. It would kill him to see them look at him with pity or disgust or even outrage, with judgment or with horror, and it would make him so angry without any outlet to shove it off on if for even one second, they thought he could have enjoyed any part of it. Already the contact he did have with them, he was treated differently, as though he were suddenly a fragile stranger who could not be joked with or looked at in the same way he had been before, and the worst thing about it was that Puck himself couldn't blame them for it. How the hell did he know how he wanted them to treat him, when he didn't know if he even wanted to see any of them ever again, as the person he had now been forced to become?

What was he supposed to tell their friends, how could he ever fit back into their lives of homework and minimum wage jobs, dating and spats between roommates, where their biggest sources of pain were breakups with their romantic partners? How could he even begin to explain to them days of boredom and lethargy coupled with helpless despair, how could he explain what it was like to be starved and beaten, to never know whether it was to be your last day alive? How could he explain to them what it was like to look prostituted, stoned girls in the eye and know they were afraid you would or could kill them, to give them the drugs that you knew were killing them already? How could he even begin to make them have an inkling of understanding of what it was like to have sex with one of your best and oldest friends for half the internet world to see, knowing how much she hated it, feeling her shaking against you, her tears wetting your skin?

How could they understand that every night he could sleep at all, he woke up sweating and gasping for breath, reaching out in a panic for a person who was never there, a person he could not even talk to now at all? How could they understand how Puck could walk around each day, have full conversations and do everything he always had before, and feel as remote and separated from every person he came across as though he were nothing more than the walking dead?

He couldn't. There was no way it would be possible, so Puck didn't try. He avoided people, avoided texts and calls, and found himself attempting instead to resettle into routines of the past, taking up pool cleaning and odd jobs all over again in Lima while sleeping in his mother's basement. She left him alone at first, but even she didn't take more than a few weeks to nag him, telling him that he needed to get back out in the world, to figure out what it was he was going to do instead of bumming around Lima in her house with no "real" job. She suggested he contact the army again, to get himself back into that, but Puck didn't even consider it. After everything, there was no way he could ever find himself in a position where large, aggressive men had control of him.

So he continued to drift, unsure of what he was doing or where he was going, or even what he wanted. He made no decisions, sought out no answers, until the night, not quite three weeks since his discharge from the hospital, that he received a phone call from Kurt.

Puck ignored it at first. He was getting practiced at that, screening calls from everyone and anyone, but when Kurt called him again, two minutes later, then again, less than thirty seconds after that, he started to get reluctantly curious, even concerned. It was almost midnight, and he could think of no reason that Kurt would call just to chat or check up on at that time. When it finally dawned on him that the call could have something to do with Santana, seeing as she was one of Kurt's roommates, Puck's heart leapt with sudden and intense fear, and he scrambled to answer the phone, having to fight to keep his voice sounding neutral.

"Yeah?"

"Puck, were you asleep? I'm sorry if you were asleep, but I really, really needed to talk with you, because we seriously don't know what to do here anymore, and we've tried everything, I do mean everything," came Kurt's fast-paced, rather shrill in pitch voice on the other end of the line. "It's just endless. She's been going on for well over an hour now, and I'm seriously concerned that she's going to lose her voice or break blood vessels in her eyes, or even give herself a heart attack. Can you have a heart attack at nineteen years old? Why am I even asking you this, of course you don't know that-"

"Dude, what the hell are you talking about?" Puck cut him off, his voice a little louder and harsher than it normally would have been as soon as he heard the word "she" and began to draw immediate conclusions. "What's going on? Just spit it out, just friggin' say it already!"

Puck heard Kurt take in a deep breath, but not release it. He sounded apprehensive towards Puck himself when he replied, as though he thought that Puck, even from hours and miles away in an entirely different state, would somehow be able to reach through the phone and physically harm him for the information he would or would not share with him.

"It's Santana," he told him, his voice still noticeably shaken. "She's crying and she won't stop, or we can't get her to stop, or she can't get herself to stop. Whichever it is, she's just, she's not stopping and we don't know what to do-"

"What do you mean, you don't know what to do, you help her, you calm her the fuck down, how the fuck is that a big mystery?!" Puck burst out with, not bothering to wait for Kurt to continue his summation. He had heard what he felt was sufficient information as it was, and the anger that rose up in him was so immediately instinctive that he didn't bother to examine whether he was directing it towards the right person or situation. "She's crying, you friggin' comfort her, you do the shit you do for crying people! You and Rachel both bawl enough that you should damn well know that. What the hell is she crying for anyway, what the hell happened? What did you say to her, what did you do?!"

"We didn't do anything, Puck!" Kurt's voice squeaked, some indignation and defensiveness coloring his tone now as well. Puck could just picture him drawing himself up, lifting his chin and regripping the phone as he spoke to him, and even that mental image agitated him to the point that he started to pace the room, resisting his temptation to throw the phone. "She was sleeping! She hasn't been doing that much, I don't think, it's not like we were going to tell her not to or wake her up, she needs to sleep! She must have had a nightmare, but no one said anything to her, no one did anything to her! She just woke up screaming and hyperventilating and we couldn't get her to stop…she's been doing that sometimes, waking up crying, but most of the time if we went to her she would just yell at us to leave her alone! It's not like we wouldn't try to talk to her or comfort her, she wouldn't' let us, she wouldn't let us talk about anything with her at all! You think we haven't tried to help her, you think we haven't been trying to calm her down, we're TRYING, Puck, she just won't, or can't! This time is different, it's worse than any of the other times where she could calm down on her own, and we don't know what the hell to do!"

"Well, what have you been trying, it's not rocket science, Hummel!" Puck spat back, even as he mentally recoiled from the information he had just been presented with. Santana was still waking up crying regularly, not letting anyone comfort her…knowing this now for sure, hearing confirmation from Kurt, made his stomach twist up with guilt and discomfort, with a strong sense of self-condemnation for his lack of presence.

Whatever Santana had told him in the hospital, hearing this made Puck feel more strongly than ever that he should have somehow known, somehow done something. Clearly Kurt and Rachel didn't know what to do, and never had, and there was no way in hell Santana had told them.

"Puck, stop yelling at me, I told you we've been trying, we're not heartless idiots!" Kurt snapped back at him. "We've been talking to her and trying to touch her, Rachel's been hugging her and trying to get her to drink water, but nothing's working. Santana just keeps shaking and she won't listen to anything anyone says, she's already cried hard enough that she's thrown up in the bed and I was the one who had to clean it up, we've been trying, Noah Puckerman! We've been asking her what she wants and she won't answer, or she can't, we thought about calling the ambulance or the police, but as soon as we said that she freaked out MORE, so then we called her mother and we called Brittany and tried to get them to talk to her but they couldn't calm her down either, and they're both talking about driving all the way up here but she wasn't calming down with them talking to her so I don't know if they'll be able to help here either. Then, she finally said something about you, or at least it sounded like your name, she's kind of hard to understand right now. But it was the best clue we had. So now we're calling you, and we all hope like hell you know what to do, because no one else does!"

Trying to process all of this, Puck tried to breathe, feeling his chest tighten until this became progressively difficult. His hands were starting to shake, his muscles twitching with the intensity of warring urges to somehow reach through the receiver to hit Kurt, and an even stronger urge to reach through and somehow touch Santana, to pull her into his chest and hold her apart from the doubtless well-meaning but ineffectual efforts of their friends. But if they couldn't help her, if they couldn't calm her down, if she was that bad off…how did he know that he could? And how would he be able to stand it if he couldn't- or even worse, if he could, and all this time she had been suffering, when he could have stopped it right away?

But she was asking for him. Santana was hurting now and asking for him, and there was no other option but to do anything he could to help. Her request for him to leave her be didn't matter, the distance between was nothing. She was hurting, she wanted him, and the only thing he could even conceive of doing was answering her call.

"Put her on, Kurt, now," he said gruffly, trying to control his tone, and when Kurt started to stammer that he didn't know if she would take the phone, he had to restrain himself from yelling. "Then hold the phone to her ear, put it on speakerphone, whatever the hell it takes, put her on the line!"

Even before they had arranged this, as Kurt seemed to be traveling back behind Santana's curtain of the loft, Puck could now hear distantly the sound of harsh sobbing in the background. Santana was crying in loud, gasping breaths, almost as though she was choking and struggling for breath against tears coming too fast and heavily for her to even begin to try to calm down. He could hear Rachel too, raising her voice to try to talk over to her, sounding every bit as strained and frantic as completely ineffective with her efforts at comforting as Kurt had, and hearing the contrast between them made Puck have to swallow several times, forcing down his own feelings in response to them, before he could address Santana. As someone, probably Kurt, brought the phone closer to her, half shouting to her that they had Puck on the other line, her crying was suddenly that much louder in Puck's ear, but Puck didn't raise his voice to her. He instinctively knew that he wanted her to have to try to quiet down to listen to him, that if he raised his voice to shout at her along with Kurt and Rachel, it would only add to the chaos.

"Santana," he said, after a final deep breath, fighting to keep his voice calm, even quiet, but intent, commanding her attention and focus. "It's me, babe. It's Puck. Listen to me. Listen to me, 'Tana, do you hear me? Can you try to hear me, can you try to listen to me now?"

"Puck," she wept, and the loud, gasping breaths that followed, along with several hiccupping sobs, made Puck's heart wrench in his chest, his teeth grit together as he struggled to continue to hold together, to not let her see how deeply he was being impacted just from listening to her. "P-P-Puck…"

"Yeah, I'm right here, babe, I'm right here," he repeated softly, forcing himself to lower his voice even more. "I'm here, 'Tana, I'm listening, I'm right here. But I need you to listen to me. Can you do that? 'Tana, can you listen to me for just a minute? I know it's hard, but try for me, okay? Try?"

He heard her shuddering breaths into the receiver, one slightly softer sob, and he took this to be assent. Puck didn't realize how tightly he was gripping the phone, how he was leaning forward as though Santana could see him as well as hear him as he continued to speak to her.

"Good, there's my girl. 'Tana, here's what I need you to do now. I need you to close your eyes and listen to what I'm telling you, okay? Are your eyes closed? 'Tana?"

"Y-y-yes…"

"Good. Good girl. Now, you need to think about breathing right now, 'Tana. Nothing else, okay, put everything else totally out of your head. Right now you gotta breathe. With me, right? I'm gonna tell you how. Count to ten, real slow, and just breathe out through your nose. Breathe out the whole time you're counting to ten, you can't breathe in until you got to ten. You hear me, babe? You doing this? I'll count with you. One…two…three…you still breathing out? Four, five, six…"

Puck counted with her, trying to do as he was instructing her to, to calm his own breathing down with hers. He could hear Santana's sobbing starting to soften, her breathing to become a little more normalized as she tried, and then her snuffling, shaking voice, more understandable than before, finally speaking back to him.

"M-my nose is running…"

Puck gave a faint laugh, more relieved than he would have predicted just to hear her speak at all. "That happens, babe, believe me, you snotted all over me a million times back…you know when. It's alright, tell Hummel to get you some tissues and make himself useful. Just keep breathing and don't worry about that, you'll clean up later and be hot as ever, right?"

He kept counting with her for a few more minutes, and then, when it seemed she was breathing almost normally again, he kept talking to her, trying to work through it with her- realizing even as he spoke that everything he was saying to her, he was saying for his own benefit as well.

"Listen to me, 'Tana. You're safe now. Do you hear me? You're safe. No one is going to hurt you. Anything you see at night, anything you remember, it's all over now. It won't ever happen again, it's over. You're okay. You're okay."

He repeated the same several sentences over and over, his voice beginning to take on a rhythm almost like a song, until he was pretty sure that Santana was, if not totally finished crying, at least much closer to calm than she had been before. Then he changed his instructions to her one last time, his voice even softer.

"There you go. Here's what I want you to do now, 'Tana, okay? Lay down in bed, and let Rachel hold you. You understand? Lay down, close your eyes, and let her hold you until you can sleep. 'Cause you gotta sleep, babe, you know that. Here, put Rachel on a second, just for one second and then she'll give the phone back to you and I'll keep talking to you."

It seemed Santana was reluctant to hand the phone over, because it was another minute or so before Rachel's anxious voice came on the line. Puck didn't waste his time with pleasantries, instructing her right away.

"Look, she's calming down, so just lay down with her and sort of do the spoon thing from behind with her, okay? Just sort of hug her but not where she's gotta look at you. You be behind her. And sort of rub her arms and play with her hair, that calms her down, okay? If her mom or Brittany come over, tell them to back off and leave her alone a while, you just hold onto her until she goes to sleep and then if she's dreaming again, wake her the hell up and put her back on the phone with me. She oughtta let you do this now. Now put the phone back to her ear."

He didn't listen to Rachel's reply, waiting impatiently for her to do as he has told her to, and when he could hear Santana's still snuffling breaths a few moments later, he licked his lips unconsciously, taking in another self-steadying breath before speaking to her.

"Hey, 'Tana. You laying down like I told you to?"

"Yeah," she mumbled back her response, sniffling again, and Puck nodded unconsciously, trying to keep his voice quiet for her, still calm and unruffled, before he continued to speak to her. It was difficult, hearing that catch in her voice, but he tried, knowing it was what she needed.

"You letting Rachel hang onto you without yelling in her ear or punching her in the boob?"

"Hey!" he heard Rachel's somewhat indignant response from somewhere close, and Puck's lips twitched briefly, almost a smile. He heard a weak chuckle from Santana then, and his heart squeezed in reaction, this time with something like hope and affection rather than pain.

"Yeah….she probably wants you to say something like breast or…female baby feeding organs…or something, instead."

"Hey, I call it how I see it, you both got boobs," Puck responded, grateful when Santana gave a brief, tired chuckle again. "So you're laying down, letting her hug up on you…hot, totally hot."

Another noise showing weary amusement from Santana, not quite a laugh, but Puck would take it. again he found himself leaning forward unconsciously as he spoke to her, his voice growing softer, gentler in tone.

"Close your eyes, 'Tana. Lean back into Rachel and close your eyes."

He gave her a few seconds to comply, and then he began to sing. Whatever song came to his head, if it were soft in tone and soothing in lyrics, Puck sang it, leaning forward and cradling the phone towards his face as though it were Santana's hand. He sang until he began to run the words and lyrics together into a jumbled mess in his weariness, until he could not think of another song, but mostly, he sang until he could hear Santana's snuffling breaths begin to even out, until he could tell from the change in her breathing that she had fallen asleep. He sang until he heard Rachel tentatively speak up in a loud whisper, telling him that Santana was asleep, and asking what she should do now, and only then did Puck stop, replying to her in a whisper as well.

"You should keep holding her, Rachel, what do you think? Hold her until she wakes up, go to sleep yourself if you can. And don't swap out with Kurt because…"

And here he paused, not wanting to say aloud his own thoughts. How did he explain to Rachel, without getting much deeper into details than he or Santana had ever wanted, that Kurt should not try to hug or hold Santana, as well-intended and unthreatening as he was, because he happened to have a penis, because the only reason that Puck was probably the exception to this rule was because he had been the one who had been there, even if he was also one of the ones who had hurt her?

He didn't try to explain any of this. He just concluded in a somewhat gruffer tone, "Just don't, okay? And…if she wakes up, and she's like this again, just call me. Do the same thing over again but call me first."

"O…okay," Rachel replied, her own voice somewhat shaken. He could hear what sounded like suppressed tears in her as well as she asked him, "Puck…what happened with, with you two…is she going to be okay?"

There was no answer he could give Rachel that would satisfy himself or her that was honest too…but Puck intended to make himself and his words become honest ones, whatever it took. So when he replied to her, he said it with a determination and conviction that he fully meant to follow through with.

"Yes, Rachel, she's gonna be. I swear to you, I swear to her she's gonna be, okay?"

But long after Rachel had hung up, having agreed to call him the second Santana woke up if she was still upset, Puck was unable to even begin to consider sleep. He found himself pacing the confines of his bedroom in his parents' basement, the muscles of his jaw and upper arms twitching frequently, the more he thought about Santana and what had just occurred. He knew now how sad and frightened she was, how she was haunted, every bit as much as he was, himself, if not more so. He knew that she was still unable to rest peacefully at night, that she was still no doubt constantly seeing and remembering everything they had endured, everything she herself had done, and that the pain and fear she was living out each day, she was struggling through alone, not letting anyone else know or help her, even if they offered. He knew now that she needed him, that he alone had been able to soothe her after the efforts of everyone else…and now that he knew that, Puck was disgusted with himself for having let her go for so long without having known or made it his business to know that all of this was true.

He didn't try to sleep. He didn't try to shut down his thoughts as he usually did, didn't try to distract himself or refocus on anything less. And within two hours of having hung up the phone, Puck had come to a decision.

He didn't' care anymore what it meant or how he had to go about making it happen, but he could no longer even try to deny to himself that he wanted Santana. More than that, he needed her, needed to be with her, to see her physically and physically put his hands on her, to know that she was, if not okay, alive and able to be helped by his presence. Puck didn't know if he loved her as a sister or a friend, a co-dependent survivor or much more. He didn't know if he wanted to cling to her because of what had happened and a pathology that had developed between them as a result, or if it was simply that she had become more important to him than anyone else, that he had become so used to looking after her needs that he no longer knew how to stop. But he no longer cared either. To hell with it. He wanted Santana, he wanted to be with her, no matter what it meant or what anyone else, including Santana herself, thought, and somewhere around three in the morning, this was the decision that was made.

He would go to her, pack his bag right away, and simply be there by the time she woke the next day. He would be there, he would become whatever it was she needed then, and he would never even try to leave her again.


	23. Chapter 23

It was a very long drive into New York City, and Puck had had no sleep the night before. It didn't' matter to him; whatever the lack of sleep, caffeine, and the length of the drive, he was wide awake by the time he finally pulled into the closest parking garage near his friends' apartment. It wasn't until he stepped out of his car and began to walk the short distance to their loft that he first began to feel any hints of apprehension over what he had just done, and this was not due to the decision, but rather to the fact that he was walking alone when it was barely daylight, down the city streets- in a very similar circumstance and position as to what had started the whole mess with Santana in the first place.

Puck found himself walking fast, his hands in fists, ready to swing out at anyone and anything that remotely appeared to be coming towards him. His head swiveled continually at even the smallest noises or movements, and his eyes shifted side to side, ever on guard of his surroundings. By the time he made it to the front door of the loft, his heart was beating fast not in apprehension to seeing Santana for the first time since the hospital, but rather due to his adrenaline over his feeling of having taken his life into his hands, and this time, coming out on the other side.

He could do this. He could live in this city, if he had to, and be okay; he could make it so that Santana would be okay too. It was what he had to do, and somehow, he would figure out a way.

It seemed to take forever to him before someone would come to the door and let him in. Only after Puck had knocked several times and then stood impatiently, shifting his weight from side to side as he waited to be let in, did it occur to him that maybe he should have called first. If Santana was awake again and recovering from the aftermath of another nightmare, she might automatically become frightened by an unexpected knock on the door, or even become convinced that it was Remington and his men, somehow alive again to come back for her. Puck couldn't deny to himself that the exact same thoughts and fears hadn't come to his own mind when his mother or his sister approached his bedroom in the basement unannounced; he couldn't deny that sleeping in the basement in and of itself didn't provoke in him many memories and unwelcome feelings he could never have explained aloud to either of them. But how did he tell his family he was almost afraid to sleep in his own room, when he had made it more than clear he was not going to talk to them more than absolutely necessary at all?

And if Santana was not awake and afraid at the sound of his knocking, it was equally likely that she, Kurt, and Rachel were too deeply asleep to even hear. Having been up so late and emotionally spent from everything that had been going on with Santana, it would be pretty understandable if they slept for another several hours.

Puck himself wasn't at all tired; if anything, the adrenaline from his decision, paired up with the caffeine from the coffee and energy drinks he had been consuming for most of the drive over, had him feeling overly energized and almost twitchy, unable to fully focus his attention or remain still. He was starting to get out his cell phone, meaning to call and tell them to open the door, when it finally swung open a crack, revealing Kurt's squinting, clearly exhausted face on the other side. His hair was badly tousled, his skin tone paler than usual, and he stifled a yawn, even as his formerly half closed eyes opened wide with surprise upon seeing Puck.

"Puck…you're…here?" the words were much more a question than an announcement or declaration, and Kurt blinked, then rubbed a hand over his face, seeming to be wondering sincerely whether to trust his own vision. "It's…did you say you were…I didn't ask you to come, did I?"

"Nope, made my own decision, I can do that sometimes, you know," Puck responded, looking around Kurt to try to see past his body to what lay behind the door. "You the only one up, or…"

"Did…did Rachel ask, or Santana? I mean…you didn't have to…it's a really long drive…did you not sleep tonight?" Kurt suppressed another yawn even as he asked this, inching the door open slightly as he leaned into his frame. "How did you drive all that way without…"

"I'm here, s'all that matters," Puck shrugged, considerably lacking in the patience it would take to have a long, explanatory conversation with Kurt in that moment. He didn't want to shove the guy out of the way so he could go into the apartment, but he was beginning to feel sorely tempted to do so, his hands twitching slightly with his urge. "Look, you gonna let me in or what? Is San up yet?"

"San- oh…OH," a light suddenly seemed to blink on in Kurt's eyes, new understanding lighting up his face, and he finally opened the door all the way, stepping back to let Puck through. "You came to see…OH. Uh, no, she's not up, I don't think, but you can probably get her up? Or hang out a while until she does get up…I think Rachel's up but she's sort of…trapped by her, if you know what I mean. Uh…right, come in, sorry."

Puck just shook his head, not even attempting to follow what Kurt was saying as he followed him through the doorway. He had no luggage with him to drop on the floor, nothing but himself, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, and as Kurt scurried through the kitchen area, still babbling on something about coffee and tea, Puck ignored him, heading straight for the curtained off area that was Santana's designated bedroom space. He hesitated, having nothing to knock on, and settled for calling out softly, one hand lightly resting on the curtain.

"Santana? Rach? It's Puck."

Now that he was actually standing in the loft, only a few feet away from Santana, there was not yet any sense of relief; if anything, Puck was nervous, stricken with sudden doubts for his decision. He had not asked Santana whether she wanted him to come; he had not planned what to do, if she did not. It had seemed so simple and clear to him, on his drive over, in the moments of his decision; he needed her, she needed him, so obviously, he had to go to her. But now that he was standing just out of view of her, now that he was physically there, what if she didn't want him here at all? What if she again told him to leave? And what if she meant it? What was he supposed to do then?

"Puck? What are you doing here?" he heard Rachel's loud whisper in response from behind the curtain, though it didn't sound as though she were sitting up or making a move to come towards him. "Did you drive all night?"

"Yeah," Puck told her, automatically lowering his voice to a whisper as well. "Sort of…is San asleep?"

"Yes, she…you said to leave her be and keep holding her as long as she was asleep, so… I've been doing that," Rachel replied, her voice still barely below a normal speaking tone but clearly intended to be a whisper. "She's been sleeping pretty hard though, and honestly, I'm not complaining because she obviously needs this and I'm really glad she's getting it, the sleep and the lack of horrible dreams, but she's crushing my arm and it's been numb for at least an hour… is there a possible time limit for this? Because if she sleeps all day… I'm sort of afraid to move her."

Puck's lips twitched into a brief near smile, and he slowly pulled the curtain back, not wanting to scare either girl by doing so. With Santana's bedroom area now exposed to his view, he could see that just as Rachel had indicated, she was lying with Santana in her bed, holding her from behind, her chin resting on Santana's shoulder, her arms covering Santana's, gently keeping Santana anchored back against her chest. She was right, she was positioned in such a way that the weight of Santana's body was on top of her arm, and it did look somewhat uncomfortable.

But Puck barely took this in; it was Santana he was focused on. Santana, her eyes closed, her face stained with old, dried tears, her breathing slightly even, but congested, as though she still needed to properly blow her nose, even hours after her crying fit had ended. She was fully relaxed back against Rachel, obviously having found some feeling of security in having followed Puck's instructions, and still fairly deeply asleep, even with the talking going on around her. Despite her dirty face and snuffling breathing, Puck found himself catching his breath, his heart squeezing hard with enormous relief just to look at her and see her, physically in one piece, able to rest at last. She looked so peaceful to him then, in spite of it, so completely beautiful and vulnerable that he couldn't resist stepping forward, one hand reaching out to touch her, before he dropped it back to his side.

He was only dimly aware of Rachel looking at him, her brow furrowed as she observed this gesture, seeming to be trying to piece it together with the Puck she remembered, paired with the Santana she had known before as well. "Puck?" she questioned, but he shook his head, clearing his throat.

"No, I'm not gonna…let her be. Just try to ease your arm out from her, but if she's still gonna sleep, just…just let her, okay?"

But even as he spoke he saw Santana start to stir, her eyes blinking and fluttering beneath still closed eyelids. Then she was shifting against Rachel, mumbling something under her breath, and as Rachel loosened her hold on her, looking up to Puck for help, Santana opened her eyes, looking directly across the small room to him.

"Hey, San," Puck said quickly, wanting her to understand that she was not dreaming, wanting her to immediately shake any confusion she might have. It was possible that after having had nightmares earlier, waking up to find Puck unexpectedly standing near her would make her panic, momentarily thinking that they were back in the basement, just as Puck himself often did when waking up in his own basement bedroom. "It's okay, it's me, swear. Morning."

She blinked again, rubbing at her blurry eyes with the palm of her hand as her brow furrowed in confusion, before she looked back at Rachel, seeming confused by the other girl's presence and closeness as well. Rachel quickly released her, starting to sit up and scoot away from her on the bed. Looking between her and Puck and rapidly and with obvious nervousness, she appeared to almost expect Santana to start to cry again, or perhaps she thought the girl would come to the conclusion that she was in danger and try to attack her.

"Santana, Puck drove all the way from Lima to see you. That's, that was really nice of him, wasn't it? Do you…do you want me to go, or do you want-"

But Santana was ignoring Rachel, hardly seeming to notice or care that she was still present at all. Instead she stood slowly, entirely detaching from Rachel and flinching slightly at the pull of what seemed to be very tight and sore muscles jarred by the motion. She took no time to stretch or otherwise acknowledge the pain, however, that she seemed to be experiencing. Instead, she began to walk forward slowly, her eyes trained on Puck's face. The continued faintly frowning expression on her face seemed to indicate that she was still trying to convince herself that he was there and still not quite sure of it. But she took the few steps forward steadily, until she was standing less than a foot away, looking up at him. Puck didn't dare move, didn't reach out for her or address her again, although he knew it would take nothing more than a stumble before their chests would touch. He waited, not sure what it was she was wanting or would do.

For a moment or two Santana looked up at him silently, her eyes dark and difficult to read. Then abruptly her features softened, her eyes glazing over with what looked like sudden suppressed tears, and she leaned in, no, more like collapsed against Puck, her arms winding around him so tightly he was startled, almost knocked breathless by the gesture. As her head came to rest heavily against his chest, her eyes squeezing shut, Puck can feel her heart beating, fast but steady, against his ribcage, her warm breath against his skin even through the material of his shirt, and there is only one possible response to this.

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her in closely against himself, and cradles her to his chest, one hand slowly rubbing up and down her back, the other cupping the back of her head, thumb lightly rubbing over a small section of her hair. Neither spoke; there was nothing to say. Neither acknowledged Rachel or Kurt, both present and definitely watching with something like awkward fascination. Puck didn't care; he barely remembered that anyone at all existed in that moment except him and Santana. He held her, and for the first time in weeks, he felt somehow right.

At some point he was vaguely aware of Kurt slipping out of the curtain entranceway and busying himself in the kitchen, and then of Rachel following after him, neither without saying a word. Then Santana was pulling away just enough that she could lead Puck back to her bed with her. Lying down, she tugged him down with her, her gesture and her eyes wordlessly requesting, and Puck needed no clearer request to join her, wrappin

her, wrapping himself around her and pulling her in close to his chest as his hands continued to stroke slowly over her spine.

They both knew that there would be talk, eventually, of what to do and where to go, both in reference to their physical locations and as to themselves as people, both separately and together, as survivors, as friends, and as possibly much more. They both knew that there was much to decide and come to terms with, so much more than any amount of talking would ever fully be able to settle out. Their pasts and their futures, their shared trauma, both inflicted upon by others and by each other…their fears and their failures, their feelings for others and their feelings for each other. What were they to each other now, what would they be to each other, in the future, and where would they take themselves from here?

There was much to say, much to come to terms with, and some of it would take more time than they could put on any given calendar or schedule. But in those moments of coming back together, after their efforts at forcing themselves apart…in those moments of unhidden feeling, of undeniable need, neither Puck nor Santana tried to put a label on any of it at all. They knew only that they needed each other, that they loved each other, however or whatever that truly meant…and they knew that they had no intention, now or any time in the future, of ever trying to set that aside or push that away again.

Whatever this meant, whatever their future held, however long it took to try to inch back towards being better, if not okay, they would do it together. It might not be a label, but it was the only definition right then that either of them needed.

The end


End file.
